I (TO  '  '/ 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2008  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/cityofdawnOOroberich 


A   CITY   OF   THE   DAWN 


Then  from  the  dawn  it  seem'd  there  came,  but  faint 
As  from  beyond  the  limit  of  the  world, 
Like  the  last  echo  born  of  a  great  cry. 
Sounds,  as  if  some  fair  city  were  one  voice 
Around  a  king  returning  from  his  wars.' 


THE  ROAD  TO   THE  CATHEDRAL 


A  CITY 
OF   THE   DAWN 


BY    ROBERT    KEABLE  |i- 

AUTHOR   OF    'the    LONELINESS    OP   CHRIST ' 

'dabkvbss  or  light,'  'songs  or  the  narrow  way,'  etc. 


WITH   AN    INTRODUCTION   BY 

ARTHUR  C.  BENSON 


V^/l^ 


NEW    YORK 
E.   p.  BUTTON  ife   COMPANY 

681   FIFTH   AVENUE 
1915 


in  ■  'A  s  s' 


\  ^    \\   I 


TO    MY    MOTHER 


INTRODUCTION 


It  is  something  more  than  a  pleasure  to  me  to 
be  asked  to  say  a  few  words  of  introduction 
to  this  briUiant  Uttle  book,  the  work  of  a 
friend  and  former  pupil.  '  Brilliant '  is  the 
word  that  keeps  recurring  to  me,  because  the 
author  appears  to  me  to  have  actually  seen 
things  wonderful  and  strange,  to  have  caught 
and  retained,  out  of  a  thousand  rich  impres- 
sions, whatever  it  is  which  constitutes  their 
interest  and  charm,  their  strangeness  and 
grotesqueness,  their  appeal  and  pathos,  their 
strength  and  fineness  ;  and  all  this,  it  seems 
to  me,  ripples  into  words  both  apt  and  beau- 
tiful, till  I  too  see  and  feel  it,  swiftly  and 
distinctly— the  heat,  the  colour,  the  scent, 
the  atmosphere  of  it  all.  The  book  is  vivid, 
picturesque,  impressive  from  end  to  end. 

II 

I  have  often  asked  myself  why  it  is  that  a 
description  of  Christian  mission  work  is  gener- 


626522 


vi  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

ally  so  dull,  and  if  it  needs  to  be  dull.  There 
is  no  doubt  that  such  a.  record  too  frequently 
has  a  dreary  solemnity  about  it  which  is 
frankly  disconcerting.  I  wonder  now  whether 
the  reason  is  not  simply  this,  that  the  good 
men  who  bring  back  stories  of  their  work,  and 
try  with  a  pathetic  earnestness  to  enlist  the 
interest  of  the  unconcerned,  have  not  really 
seen  the  marvellous  quality  of  what  they  have 
lived  and  toiled  among.  Perhaps  they  have 
been  too  much  preoccupied,  too  much  bent  on 
the  organisation  and  detail  of  their  work,  too 
much  absorbed  in  reproducing  a  settled  scheme 
of  action  in  the  far-off  place  to  attend  to  what 
was  actually  going  on  about  them  in  heaven 
and  earth.  The  result  is  a  sense  that  one  need 
hardly  go  out  into  the  wilderness  to  see  pro- 
ceeding, under  added  difficulties  and  disadvant- 
ages, what  is  going  on  more  completely  and 
perfectly  at  home — the  school,  the  hospital,  the 
meeting,  the  church  service  !  But  here  in  this 
book  the  writer's  eyes  are  everywhere ;  and  not 
only  that,  but  the  words  flow  out  to  recapture 
it  all,  till  as  I  draw  to  the  end  of  chapter  after 
chapter,  it  is  with  the  dreamlike  sense  that 
some  vision  has  passed  between  me  and  the 
quiet    bookshelves   of    the   room  where   I  sit 


INTRODUCTION  vii 

and  the  close-grown  shrubberies  of  the  College 
Garden. 

ni 

There  really  is  no  reason  why  such  a  life 
should  be  dull — it  has  every  element  of  travel, 
of  risk,  of  adventure  that  can  make  life  excit- 
ing. Bishop  Westcott  once  said,  '  A  man 
should  be  prepared  to  die  for  his  profession, 
as  in  the  case  of  the  doctor  or  the  soldier.  A 
shopkeeper  must  not  object  if  his  profession 
is  regarded  with  less  respect,  if  he  cannot  die 
for  it.'  That  is  an  obvious  truth ;  and  the 
life  of  the  missionary  has  that  first  touch  of 
honour  and  chivalry.  Of  course,  all  who  go 
out  to  such  countries  run  the  same  risk  for 
different  reasons,  the  soldier,  the  sailor,  the 
official,  the  trader.  But  there  is  added  to  the 
life  of  the  missionary  a  deeper  interest  still. 
Soldiers,  sailors,  and  officials  go  out  to  keep 
order  as  unobtrusively  as  they  can,  but  still 
they  are  there  as  conquerors.  The  traveller 
goes  to  pick  up  impressions,  the  trader  to 
make  money — their  objecJ>-is  to  bring  some- 
thing away.  But  the  missionary  goes  to 
understand  the  heart  and  mind  of  the  native, 
to  love  him  if  he  can,  to  win  his  love  and  trust. 


viii  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

and  to  persuade  him  of  a  great  truth,  a  far- 
reaching  idea.  He  goes  to  give  everything 
and  to  gain  nothing,  and  thus  the  missionary 
can  have  a  better  chance  of  getting  behind  the 
tapestry  of  hfe,  so  to  speak.  And  yet  perhaps 
the  dulness  sometimes  hes  in  this,  that  he  is 
not  looking  out  for  the  difference  of  the  new 
scene  from  the  old,  but  for  its  similarity  to  the 
old.  He  thinks  perhaps  that  visions  which 
seem  so  glorious  to  himself  must  approve  them- 
selves to  all  who  own  the  privilege  of  humanity  ; 
and  thus  he  can  only  record  what  he  went  out 
to  say.  But  the  relief  here  is  to  find  that  the 
writer  does  not  so  face  the  new  conditions. 
'  They  do  not  think  as  we  think,'  he  says  ; 
and  why  the  book  strikes  so  hopeful  a  note 
is  that  he  is  all  alive  to  the  differences — ^the 
history,  the  traditions,  the  instincts,— which 
have  combined  to  make  these  other  folk  what 
they  are,  and  which  cannot  be  exchanged  for 
the  new  ideas  by  the  simple  process  of  chang- 
ing clothes  ! 

But  the  adventure  of  it  need  be  no  more  dull 
than  The  Odyssey  or  The  Pilgrim's  Progress ; 
and  Mr.  Keable  took  with  him  a  zest,  a  fresh- 
ness, a  lively  inquisitiveness,  and  an  eye  sensi- 
tive  to   every   kind   of   impression ;     so   that 


INTRODUCTION  ix 

instead  of  coming  back  with  a  tale  half-patient, 
half-dolorous,  of  schemes  more  or  less  realised, 
of  converts  partially  conformed  to  Western 
ways,  of  British  institutions  more  or  less 
securely  established,  he  gives  us  a  sense  of 
movement  and  richness,  bare  and  tragic  enough 
in  one  glimpse,  hopeful  and  resplendent  the 
next  moment,  and  all  full  of  tropical  luxuri- 
ance and  glowing  intricacy. 

And  that  is  why  I  believe  the  book  may  have 
a  singular  value,  because  it  makes  an  appeal 
to  the  imagination,  and  brings  out  vividly  the 
romance  of  mission  life,  which  many  most 
earnest  workers  hardly  care,  hardly  dare  to 
emphasise. 

IV 

He  touches,  too,  upon  deep  problems  which 
cannot  be  soon  or  easily  solved.  If  we  com- 
pare our  modern  missions  with  the  first  out- 
burst of  primitive  Christianity,  we  feel  at  once 
the  immense  difference.  Then,  a  few  simple, 
uneducated,  unworldly  men,  of  the  labouring 
class,  went  out  to  fight  the  ideas  and  forces 
of  a  vast  and  infinitely  powerful  civilisation, 
as  though  a  band  of  Russian  peasants  might 
bring  a  new  religion  to  London.     Now,  it  is 


X  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

the  other  way  ;  and  the  missionary  comes  with 
the  wealth,  the  law,  and  the  prestige  of  civili- 
sation behind  him ;  the  flag  waves  over  him, 
and  the  maxim-gun  is  not  far  off.  It  must 
be  fearfully  and  inextricably  bewildering  for 
unsophisticated  and  ignorant  natives  to  dis- 
entangle the  motives  of  it  all,  and  to  believe  in 
the  meekness,  the  affection,  the  disinterested- 
ness of  the  missionary,  who  comes  as  a  mere 
concomitant  of  so  much  secular  power  and 
military  force.  Such  condescension,  they  must 
think,  surely  has  something  sinister  about  it ! 

Civilisation  brings  formidable  and  disas- 
trous gifts  with  it — disease  and  unscrupulous 
persons  and  enforced  orderliness  and  dangerous 
indulgences ;  and  even  Christian  ideas  and 
instincts — are  they  come  to  transform  or  to 
destroy  ?  Does  the  Englishman,  so  strong,  so 
consistent,  so  self-satisfied,  really  wish  to  per- 
suade ?  Is  there  not  a  menace  of  some  kind 
behind  his  innocent  overtures  ? 


It  all  points  to  the  necessity  of  a  deeply 
scientific  and  psychological  treatment  of  these 
problems,  a  real  knowledge  of  savage  inherit- 


INTRODUCTION  xi 

ances  and  instincts,  a  delicate  conciliatoriness, 
and  a  determination,  not  simply  to  expel  or 
ridicule  deeply  rooted  ideas,  but  to  show  that 
the  new  principles  are  a  true  and  natural  de- 
velopment of  the  frail  and  fitful  hopes  that 
exist.  Missions  are  not  merely  the  fad  of 
enthusiasts;  in  spite  of  natural  failure  and 
delay,  they  are  of  the  very  essence  of  the 
Gospel  spirit.  The  message  of  the  Cross  is  to 
show  how  the  worst  that  man  can  do  is  vitally 
linked  with  the  best  that  God  can  do ! 

And  here,  I  make  no  doubt,  lies  the  deeper 
and  stronger  appeal  of  the  book,  that  though 
the  essence  of  the  Faith  of  Christ  is  here 
grasped  with  overpowering  emotion,  it  is  yet 
not  viewed  as  a  cast-iron  system,  with  every 
detail  implacably  fixed,  which  must  recommend 
itself  at  once  to  minds  whose  very  texture  is 
utterly  and  entirely  unlike  our  own,  and  the 
strands  of  which  pass  dimly  and  obscurely  back 
into  an  immemorial  antiquity.  Mr.  Keable, 
though  he  holds  his  creed  and  his  tradition 
with  ardent  and  unconquerable  enthusiasm, 
yet  keeps  ever  in  sight  the  belief  that  the 
principle  and  the  life  must  carry  and  evoke 
the  system,  and  that  the  system  must  be 
shown    to   have   grown   unmistakably   out   of 


xii  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

the  principle.  It  is  a  strong  and  wide  faith, 
not  dully  nor  hardly  pressed ;  and  the  two 
aspects  of  the  book  here  unite— namely,  the 
intense  absorption  by  eye  and  ear  and  mind 
of  all  the  infinite  variety  of  atmosphere  and 
history  and  scene,  never  neglected  and  yet 
never  allowed  either  to  bewilder  and  distract ; 
and  on  the  other  hand,  the  deep  conviction 
that  the  Incarnation  holds  in  it  the  end  and 
the  solution  of  all  these  broken  lights  and 
complex  threads ;  and  is  not  the  mere  trium- 
phant answer  of  the  West  to  the  East,  but 
the  one  eternal  satisfaction,  for  Eastern  and 
Western  perplexities  alike,  of  the  deepest  of  all 
human  needs,— the  need  to  be  set  right  and 
justified  and  given  the  chance  of  joining  the 
faint  and  broken  hope  of  the  present  to  the  full 
glory  of  the  world  to  come. 

Arthur  Christopher  Benson. 


CONTENTS 


CHAP. 

I.     THE    SIREN 

II.  WITHIN   THE   GATE     . 

III.  THE    STREETS   OF  THE   CITY 

IV.  THE    HOUSE    OF    ISLAM 
V. 

VI. 


KINYOZI   .  .  .  • 

BY-PATHS  THROUGH  COCOA-NUTS 

VII.     THE    FRENCH    MISSION 
VIII.     AFTER   HIS    LIKENESS 
IX.     THE    CHAPEL    OF   THE    THORNS 

X.  A    VILLAGE    STREET    . 

XI.  WITH    OPENED    EYES 

XII.  SILVESTER 

XIII.  WHEN    TROPIC    SEAS    ARE    OUT 

XIV.  THE   GHOST-POOLS    OF   KOMBENI 


AND  CLOVES 


PAGB 
1 

9 

17 

28 

87 

44 

61 
68 

74 

84 

91 

98 

105 

121 


xiii 


xiv  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

CHAr. 

XV.  LATIN,    HISTORY,    AND    SCIENCE 

XVI.  ROOFS    IN    THE    SUN 

XVII.  AMOS    IN    AFRICA     ... 

XVIII.  SCOUTS,    BLACK    AND    BROWN    . 

XIX.  NIGHT    IN    A    LAND    OF    DREAMS 

XX.  DOWN    THE    WORLD'S    HIGHWAYS 

XXI.  A    VESSEL    UNTO    DISHONOUR    . 

XXII.  THE    COFFEE-SELLER 

XXIII.  *THE    MOTHER   OF   THE    POOR* 

XXIV.  '  IT    SHALL    BE    LIGHT  '      . 
XXV.  IN    FESTA  .... 

XXVI.  THE    COMING    KINGDOM     . 

XXVII.  BEYOND    THE    DISTANT    HILLS  . 


188 
147 
154 
164 
172 
179 
185 
192 
199 
206 
218 
222 
288 


Note. — Some  of  the  above  chapters  have  appeared  in  The 
Commonwealth,  The  Treasury,  and  The  Churchman,  to  the  editors 
of  which  I  desire  to  make  acknowledgment. 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 


THE  ROAD  TO  THE  CATHEDRAL     ....        Frontupieoe 
THE  OLD  PORTUGUESE  FORT To  face  page  10 


THE  CREEK,  SHOWING  LIVINGSTONE'S  HOUSE 

ON  THE  BRIDGE 

THROUGH  A  CLOVE  PLANTATION  .        .        .        . 

THE  COLLEGE  ON  THE  CLIFF 

A  GOVERNMENT  ROAD 

THE  DEVIL  POOL 

THE  CLIFF  OF  A  CORAL  ISLAND    .... 

A  STREET  IN  THE  CITY 

TO  ARMS ! 

INDIAN  CHILDREN 

COCOA-NUT  WOODS 

A  SOMALI  OF  THE  QUAY 

BOYS  ON  THE  QUAY 

AN  AFRICAN  STREAM 


,  24 

.  44 

,  49 

,  74 

,  84 

,  130 

,  135 

,  188 

,  143 

,  150 

,  1«9 

,  180 

,  227 

,  240 


THE    SIREN-'.  :      ';  ^  ',./ "V/^'  -■ '^ 

One's  first  impression  of  this  part  of  Africa  is 
that  she  is  a  great  siren.  Less  than  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  away,  across  a  stretch  of  still,  blue, 
translucent  water,  the  sea  is  rippling  on  a  white, 
coral-sand  beach,  and,  beyond,  the  trees  come 
down  to  meet  the  shore  in  a  tangle  of  verdure, 
pricked  out,  here  and  there,  with  masses  of 
colour.  We  round  a  headland,  and  Kilindini 
lies  before  us.  On  the  shore  the  cocoa-nut 
palms  give  way  to  a  grove  of  baobab  trees,  which 
stretch  out  naked,  silvery  branches  unbend- 
ingly against  the  azure  sky,  and  robe  their 
enormous  trunks  and  lower  boughs  with  hang- 
ing festoons  of  some  coarse  creeper.  We  slip 
by,  and  clutch  a  buoy,  to  swing  round  in  the 
grip  of  the  current.  Then  comes  the  landing 
experience,  of  which  it  takes  some  time  to  tire ; 
and  presently  we  dismiss  our  half-naked  boat- 
man, with  his  rough-timbered  boat,  alongside 
the  landing-stage  of  squared  coral  blocks.  Right 


2  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

ahead  is  the  Uganda  railway  with  its  insigni- 
ficant permanent  way,  all  ludicrously  unpro- 
tected and  raw,  yet,  nevertheless,  the  artery  of 
a  Qpntinent  and  the  life  of  a  protectorate.  But 
we  board  a '  ghari '  and  are  pushed  up  the  sandy 
TO^d  f-t  a  double.  Dark,  long-leaved  mangoes 
show  like  Western  trees  in  the  distance  ;  lighter 
bananas  lift  wide  graceful  fans  on  either  side ; 
cool,  impenetrable  almond  trees  make  a  grate- 
ful shade  ;  and  scarlet  acacias,  their  blaze  of 
blossom  crowning  bare  branches,  lend  a  colour 
to  it  all.  The  rich  scent  of  frangipanni  is  in  the 
air,  and  here  and  there  a  bougainvillea  runs 
riot  in  a  blaze  of  purple  upon  some  decaying 
trunk.     And  these  are  the  skirts  of  the  siren. 

To  penetrate,  you  leave  the  road  and  take 
the  path  that  follows  round  the  island  from 
Kilindini  to  Mombasa.  Hard  by  the  sea,  at 
the  head  of  the  baobab  grove,  stands  a  sentinel 
to  keep  the  way.  No  one  knows  how  old  the 
grey-stone,  pointed  round-tower  is  that  marks, 
with  its  twenty  odd  feet  of  pierced  pencil,  the 
grave  of  some  Arab  chief,  but  it  stands  at  the 
entrance  of  a  ruined  city.  Now  and  again  a 
wrecked  bastion  shows  above  the  mass  of  ver- 
dure, and  a  tumbled  wall  marks  some  public 
building.     Where  the  shade  of  a  strong  tree 


THE  SIREN  8 

has  thinned  the  bush  beneath  it,  lie  the  stones 
of  a  house  where  once  men  loved  and  hated,  a 
house  caved  in  and  broken  as  by  the  blow  of  a 
giant  fist.  Africa  has  covered  the  most  of 
them  with  her  green  mantle,  but  you  stumble 
through  a  labyrinth  of  remains.  And  all  the 
way  along  it  is  the  same. 

The  outline  of  the  part  that  they  have  played 
in  the  story  of  the  ways  of  men  is  plain  enough. 
True,  the  veil  of  seven  centuries  of  history  is 
the  most  that  you  can  lift  with  any  certainty, 
but  even  that  is  a  grim  business.  For  seven 
centuries  ago  this  little  island  was  inhabited 
by  native  races,  of  whom  the  memory  only  has 
survived,  but  who  loom  with  a  certain  dignity 
in  that  dim  light.  They  were  tall  strong  men, 
for  whom  there  might  have  been  a  future  if  the 
thread  of  their  fate  had  been  woven  otherwise 
in  the  shuttle  ;  maybe  another  Tyre  or  Carthage 
lay  in  embryo  here.  But  Africa  is  a  sorrowful 
mother,  and  she  breeds  children  who  slay  each 
other.  Anyway,  in  the  dawn  of  that  day  came 
Arab  dhows,  not  so  different,  I  imagine,  from 
those  our  gunboats  still  watch  in  the  Persian 
Gulf;  and  'The  Island  of  Wars,'  as  the  natives 
name  Mombasa,  saw  another  bloody  page 
turned  in  her  chronicles.     It  was  part  eddy  of 


4  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

a  tide  that  had  swept  to  Tours  and  Delhi,  yet 
it  did  not  wash  these  Africans  away  without  an 
effort.  Those  bastions  tell  their  own  tale.  But 
the  naked  warriors,  who  were  too  proud  to  bend, 
broke  at  last  before  the  storm.  Maybe  the 
coral  strand,  yonder,  is  in  some  way  their  tomb, 
and  the  Swahilis  of  to-day  have  drops  of  blood 
which  once  ran  in  those  forgotten  veins.  Figure 
that  deadly  strife  if  you  will,  of  days  in  which 
this  same  sunlight  broke  on  bodies  straining 
in  the  fight  for  home  and  hearth,  of  nights  in 
which  this  same  moonlight  made  possible  the 
bitter  agony  of  night  alarm  and  raid.  It 
was  over,  you  say,  when  the  Portuguese  sailed 
into  the  bay ;  was  it  ?  It  is  never  over  in 
Africa. 

A  little  farther  than  our  baobab  grove,  a  bank 
of  orchids  marks  where  recently  they  cleared 
the  ground  for  a  golf  course  and  discovered  the 
most  significant  remains  of  that  new  invasion. 
Hacked  out  by  rough  native  tools  in  the  living 
rock  is  an  old  flight  of  steep  steps  that  leads 
down  to  a  cave  and  a  sheltered  inlet.  You 
plunge  into  the  darkness  until  the  water  laps 
deep  at  your  feet  in  a  green  light,  but  ahead 
the  passage  pierces  upward  to  an  old  fort 
that  crowns  the  headland  a  few  hundred  yards 


THE  SIREN  5 

away.  It  was  part,  it  is  guessed,  of  a  yet  longer 
gallery  that  led  to  Fort  Jesus,  half  a  mile  farther 
round  the  coast  at  the  head  of  the  gulf  that 
makes  Mombasa  harbour,  and  you  may  imagine 
the  secret  gang  that  carried  munitions  and 
victuals  into  that  old  beleaguered  castle.  For 
it  was  more  often  beleaguered  than  not.  Yes, 
the  Portuguese  landed— between  the  devil  and 
the  deep  sea.  It  was  they  who  ruined  the 
Arab  city  yonder,  ay,  and  crucified  its  inha- 
bitants in  the  sun  for  sport.  Grim  sport  for 
all !  Grim  for  the  men  who  dared,  with  a 
bravery  the  wonder  of  our  modern  enterprise, 
a  venture  such  as  this  ;  who  landed,  with  the 
tropic  sun  above  them,  in  suits  of  mail  and 
with  arms  almost  ludicrous  in  their  clumsi- 
ness ;  who  dared  malaria  with  no  notion  of  its 
cause  and  less  of  its  remedy  ;  and  whose  nearest 
reinforcements  were  no  nearer  than  two  years 
—if  God  were  kind.  They  carved  out  their 
foothold  with  blood  and  tears,  and  they  knew 
no  other  way  to  keep  it.  Ever  and  again  they 
were  swept  into  the  sea ;  and  those  reinforce- 
ments, for  which  dead  eyes  had  strained  in 
vain  for  help,  had  to  land  upon  the  blood- 
stained beach,  and  build  anew  walls  which  had 
fallen  to  the  cries  of  their  tortured  countrymen 


6  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

who  had  built  them  first.     And  there  could  be 
no  return.  .  .  . 

The  story  might  be  pieced  together  at  length 
by  the  aid  of  documents  in  Europe  and  a  vivid 
imagination,  but  it  were  better  left  untold.  The 
end  of  all  was  but  the  last  link  in  a  chain  of  like 
occurrences.  Vasco  da  Gama  had  built  Fort 
Jesus,  whose  shell,  beyond  the  destruction  of 
even  Arab  vengeance,  remains  to-day  ;  and  for 
years  its  grim  strength  had  given  the  colonists 
a  rare  security.  Then,  somewhere  behind  the 
mainland  hills,  the  hordes  of  Islam  mustered, 
and  this  paii:  of  Portuguese  East  Africa  was 
reduced  to  the  area  of  that  old  fort.  Thirteen 
hundred  men,  women,  and  children,  it  is  said, 
were  shut  up  there,  and  they  held  out  for 
fifteen  months,  thanks,  perhaps,  to  that  dim 
passage  and  the  little  sheltered  cove.  No  one 
knows  the  progress  of  the  siege,  but  one  pictures 
it.  .  .  .  When  the  headland  bastion  went, 
with  its  chapel  still  to  be  made  out  among  the 
weeds,  the  very  sight  of  the  open  homeward  sea 
was  gone,  and  despair  must  have  settled  upon 
them.  The  rains,  if  they  filled  their  cisterns, 
doubled  the  victims  of  malaria,  and  the  sun, 
when  it  followed,  sent  them  panting  to  the 
walls  in  the  hot  moist  damp  we  fear  to-day. 


THE  SIREN  7 

Maybe  they  killed  their  own  women  before  the 
end  ;  they  were  white,  so  I  hope  so.  Be  that 
as  it  may,  the  garrison  numbered  but  eleven 
before  they  were  too  weak  to  load  the  guns 
again,  and  then  the  red  flag  of  the  Sultan 
floated  where  it  floats  to-day— for  Mombasa 
still  pays  a  nominal  suzerainty  to  Zanzibar. 
But  where  the  armed  Sudanese  warder,  guard- 
ing what  is  now  the  jail  of  our  administration, 
shows  ever  and  again  in  his  beat  against  the 
waving  palms  across  the  creek,  those  eleven 
paid  dearly  for  their  venture.  A  man  may  take 
long  a-dying,  and  the  art  was  well  learned  then. 
I  saw  the  old  fort  first  by  night,  when  an 
African  moon  shone  white  on  the  reef  a  mile 
at  sea  and  threw  spectral  shadows  on  battle- 
ment and  moat.  There  is  no  stillness  like  the 
stillness  of  an  African  night,  for,  by  a  curious 
trick  of  which  I  have  no  explanation,  every 
sound  seems  detached  from  the  night  itself 
and  serves  to  emphasise  its  stillness.  Across 
the  water,  in  some  village,  the  tom-toms  were 
sounding,  and  from  that  almost  unexplored 
territory  the  low  boom  of  them  broke  on  our 
ears.  Thick  bush  and  forest  to  the  marge  of 
the  sea  is  pierced  by  those  African  tracks 
which  make  a  road  for  safaris  from  east  to 


8  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

west  across  the  continent,  but  still  that  bush 
covers  ruins,  actually  Egyptian,  Persian,  and 
Chinese  among  them.  No  man  can  tell  the  story 
of  those  comings  ;  but  the  siren's  skirts  may  be 
lifted  to  show  the  bones  that  mark  their  end. 

Well,  we  have  railways  and  hospitals  and 
Maxim  guns  to-day,  and  the  few  often  poverty- 
stricken  Arabs  who  are  still  ignorant  enough 
in  their  impotence  to  hate  us,  are  here  on  suf- 
ferance now.  Their  slaves  of  yesterday  supply 
the  jail,  and  their  women  walk  the  streets  by 
night.  It  is  a  theme  for  the  moralist,  and  a 
problem  for  the  politician ;  the  old  riddle  is 
asked  in  a  new  way,  that  is  all ;  but  one  thing 
has  not  changed.  As  you  retrace  the  way  to 
Kilindini,  you  pass  the  railings  and  white  gate- 
way of  the  English  Cemetery,  and  you  may 
push  in.  There  are  only  two  classes  here— 
men  and  women  of  middle  age,  and  children. 
Scarce  a  stone  is  fifty  years  old,  yet  many  a 
grave  hides  dust  whose  friends  have  forgotten 
to  clear  the  weeds  above  him.  Life  is  short 
in  East  Africa,  and  man's  memory  likewise. 
Only  the  siren  never  forgets  and  never  changes  ; 
she  spreads  her  lure  with  gold  as  yesterday ; 
and  she  covers  with  the  beauty  of  her  garment 
the  victims  of  her  pitilessness. 


II 

WITHIN   THE    GATE 

The  sluicing  of  the  deck  beneath  the  seat 
which  a  tropical  night  had  bidden  me  exchange 
for  my  berth,  awoke  me  early  on  the  day  of 
our  coming.  The  wide,  still  sea  was  as  yet 
but  silver-grey  in  the  dawning,  and  Mombasa 
lay  eight  hours'  steam  behind;  but  the  mail 
steamer  was  slipping  by  a  long,  low,  slightly 
hilly  island,  upon  which  could  be  easily  dis- 
tinguished the  big  green  leaves  of  banana 
plants,  the  wavy  tops  of  cocoa-nut  palms,  and 
the  dark  close-set  foliage  of  mangoes  beyond 
a  sandy  coral  shore.  Ahead,  where  the  land 
bends  out  to  sea,  lies  a  white  patch  which  soon 
resolves  itself  into  a  huddle  of  houses,  low  for 
the  most  part  against  the  rapidly  deepening 
blue  of  the  harbour,  but  broken  by  the  spire 
of  the  EngUsh  Cathedral,  the  twin  towers  of  its 
Catholic  brother,  the  tall  roof  of  the  Sultan's 
Palace,  and  the  flag-staff  of  the  English  Resi- 
dency.    The   boat  passes  among  a  scattered 


10  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

handful  of  rich  green  islets.  And  just  beyond 
a  grim  reminder  of  the  last  bombardment  in 
the  shape  of  a  broken  masthead  that  pricks 
up  out  of  the  water,  between  H.M.S.  Pandora 
and  a  British  India  mail  steamer,  our  anchor 
runs  out  as  cheerily  as  it  did  in  the  halcyon 
days  before  there  was  steam. 

One  is  used  by  now  to  the  medley  ol  boats 
which  immediately  swarm  about  the  ship  as  if 
by  magic,  for  one  has  had  them  at  Mombasa, 
Aden,  and  Port  Sudan  already ;  but  the  streets 
of  an  Arab  city  are  less  familiar.  A  first 
impression  is  that  they  are  very  narrow,  very 
devious,  very  long,  and  very  smelly.  The  un- 
ending white  of  it  all  is  broken,  here  at  least, 
by  the  green  of  some  tropical  tree  at  every 
turn,  especially  where  an  ancient  fig  rambles 
up  the  white  crenellated  bastion  of  the  old 
Portuguese  fort,  or  a  tangle  of  gorgeous 
creeper  leans  over  a  high-enclosed  Arab  house. 
But  the  infinite  variety  of  the  native  is  most 
bewildering.  A  Swahili  woman  in  the  latest 
fashion  of  blue;  an  Arab  whose  dress  differs 
scarcely  at  all  from  that  of  the  first  Ibrahim ; 
a  Hindi  woman  in  a  long  brick-red  veil,  yellow 
or  green  breast-cloth,  and  much  silver  at  feet 
and  ankles  ;  a  genuine  African  in  a  black  skin 


Wm%'i 

i^ 

iki  2i 

»^t^^^HH|^H^HB 

B- 

^  i 

THE  OLD   PORTUGUESE   FORT 


c    c     c    ,c 


WITHIN  THE  GATE  11 

and  a  loin-cloth;  these  are  but  a  few  of  the 
types  in  the  street.  And  presently  you  dive 
between  a  couple  of  shops,  pass  a  sign-board 
in  English  and  Arabic,  and  some  one  says  that 
this  is  Mkunazini.  It  was  the  slave-market, 
and  it  is  now  a  kind  of  square,  planted  between 
the  houses  with  trumpet-shaped  hibiscus,  rich- 
scented  frangipanni,  and  great  red  acacia  trees. 
The  Cathedral  is  on  the  left;  and  right  in  front 
are  two  parallel  rows  of  buildings,  connected 
by  an  overhead  verandah,  which  house  the 
priests  in  charge.  The  big  red-roofed  ladies' 
mission  house  is  beyond,  rising  above  a  thatched 
white-walled  printing  establishment.  The 
Hospital,  looking  above  all  things  cool  and 
clean,  is  to  the  right ;  and  far  ahead,  across 
the  glint  of  water  in  a  creek,  rise  the  tiers  of 
brown,  thatched  hut-roofs  and  tall  green  cocoa 
palms  which  make  up  the  native  town.  It  is 
very  hot  and  beautiful.  Natives  pass,  each 
bewildering  because  of  that  impenetrable  some- 
thing with  which  the  new-comer  is  as  yet  un- 
familiar, and  the  hum  of  an  Arab  city  just 
penetrates  the  enclosure.  One  slips  gratefully 
into  the  Cathedral,  which  is  admirably  pro- 
portioned in  general  effect  and  rather  like  a  big 
college  chapel.    Here  is  the  grave  of  that  scholar 


12  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

and  gentleman  who  came  here  to  the  teaching 
of  slave  children  ABC  and  the  keeping  of 
petty  accounts,  but  who  lived  to  build  an  altar 
upon  the  very  spot  where  he  had  seen  the 
children  bought,  and  at  it  to  ordain  them  ;  and 
before  that  altar,  in  that  cool  and  holy  sanc- 
tuary, it  is  not  hard  to  pray. 

But  it  is  not  always  easy  to  do  so  after  all. 
The  glamour  of  the  landing  soon  passes,  and 
early  fears  are  soon  deepened.  True,  it  is  all  one 
great  '  magic  '  from  day  to  day  ;  how  could  it 
be  other  when  Mr.  Kipling's  Parsee  with  his 
cake  is  just  round  the  corner,  and  the  '  Miracle 
of  Purun  Bhagat '  might  happen  to-morrow  ! 
But  there  is  another  aspect  of  it  after  all.  Here 
is  the  real  East,  packed  away  in  narrow  streets 
where  the  half-naked  workman  sits  almost 
continuously  at  his  work,  simply  going  to 
sleep  in  his  open  shop  surrounded  by  his  work- 
ing brethren  when  he  is  tired,  and  waking  to 
go  on  by  the  guttering  light  of  an  oil  lamp  all 
through  the  Eastern  night ;  the  real  East,  in 
festival  on  some  marriage  night  perhaps,  when 
the  street  is  crowded  with  a  sitting,  smoking, 
drinking  crowd,  excited  by  an  unmusical  din 
in  their  own  strange  fashion,  an  excitement 
which  only  shows  itself  in  glittering  eyes  and 


WITHIN  THE  GATE  18 

much  expectoration  as  you  press  your  way 
through  after  a  black  poUceman  who  clears  the 
road  in  native  fashion  with  feet  and  hands ; 
or  the  East  in  worship,  when  you  lie  awake 
at  night  to  catch  snatches  of  the  hour-long 
sing-song  of 

*  La — ilaha — ilia — 'llahu ;  Muhammadu — 
Rasulu — 'allah.' 

(There  is  no  god  but  God ;  Mohammed  is 
the  apostle  of  God.)  That  fierce  creed  has 
echoed  from  the  south  of  France  to  the  China 
Sea,  and  from  the  Siberian  Steppes  to  the 
Congo  forests,  and  it  has  rung  in  the  ears  of 
men  since  Romans  heard  it  on  the  borders  of 
Syria,  and  Gordon  died  to  the  sound  of  it  in 
the  palace  at  Khartoum.  And  it  is  not  mere 
romance  which  talks  about  the  '  impenetrable 
East.'  The  thing  that  struck  me  most  on 
landing  first  at  Port  Sudan,  and  which  has 
grown  upon  me  every  day  since,  is  the  fact 
that  these  men  live  in  what  is  no  less  than  a 
different  world  from  that  world  which  we  know. 
It  is  so  hard  to  express,  but  there  it  is.  They 
do  not  live  as  we  do  ;  that  were  a  little  thing  ; 
but  they  do  not  think  as  we  think.  Our  needs 
are  not,  by  nature,  theirs  materially  or  spiri- 
tually ;    and    what    moves    us,    leaves    them 


14  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

unmoved,  Rudyard  Kipling's  famous  couplet 
is  a  kind  of  knell  to  the  missionary — or  at  least 
to  me, — from  which  he  finds  it  harder  to  escape 
than  many  know  in  England. 

And  yet  one  knows  not  only  where  East  and 
West  meet,  but  Who  is  the  common  link 
between.  The  problem  is  to  discover  how  we 
may  identify  ourselves  with  Eastern  thought 
so  as  to  become  a  medium  through  which  our 
Lord  may  express  Himself  to  Easterns.  We 
shall  not  do  it  by  ceasing  to  be  ourselves,  or 
by  treating  what  the  West  has  won  of  Truth 
through  centuries  past  as  if  it  were  merely  a 
local  expression  of  Truth  ;  nor,  I  suspect,  shall 
we  do  it  in  any  other  way  than  that  in  which  a 
medium  of  revelation  was  given  to  us  in  the 
Person  of  our  Lord — the  way  which  Raymond 
Lull  designated  six  centuries  ago,  that  of 
'  love  and  prayers  and  the  pouring  out  of 
tears  and  blood.'  I  cannot  in  anywise  forget 
this.  Personally  it  seems  to  me  that  the 
Mohammedan  world  is  nothing  else,  now  as 
then,  than  a  challenge  to  faith ;  and  that  a 
creed  which  is  explicitly  based  on  the  denial 
of  our  Lord  as  we  know  Him,  and  which  has 
won  victories  for  that  denial,  over  the  Cross, 
even  in  our  day,  constitutes  in  itself  not  only 


WITHIN  THE  GATE  15 

a  challenge,  but  a  challenge  which  the  Church 
as  a  whole  should  take  up.  Perhaps  to  forge 
a  sufficient  answer  needs  more  of  the  iron 
of  authority  and  of  faith  than  the  Anglican 
Church  can  give.  But  where  it  is  claimed 
that  freedom  has  given  that  body  intellectual 
progress  and  scope  denied  elsewhere,  and 
Western  blood  that  zeal  so  conspicuously 
lacking  among  the  Eastern  Orthodox  Churches, 
surely  there  should  be  some  to  constitute  a 
modern  crusading  Order  against  Islam,  armed 
with  such  weapons,  and  animated,  in  this  age, 
not  by  hate  but  by  love. 

I  do  not  know  ;  it  may  be  that  it  is  given  to 
young  men  to  dream  what  are  after  all  but 
dreams.  I  will  not  say  that  it  is  not  so.  But 
anyway  here,  in  this  island,  are  a  hundred  and 
fifty  thousand  of  those  two  hundred  millions 
throughout  the  world  for  whom  Good  Friday 
is  a  lie,  under  our  flag,  at  our  doors.  Whoever 
attempts  anything  must  essay  long  silence, 
seemingly  temporary  uselessness,  and  weari- 
some labour  for  years  at  two  languages  at 
least,  of  which  one  is  the  hardest  in  four  con- 
tinents ;  and  since  he  will  probably  come  from 
a  busy  parochial  life,  with  varied  activities 
and  infinite  opportunities,  he  had  better  be 


16  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

sure  of  the  plough  before  he  put  his  hand  to  it, 
Alas  for  the  men  whose  plough  deceives  them  ! 
And  yet  even  they  may  hope.  As  I  write  it 
is  getting  late,  and  all  the  varied  sounds  of  an 
African  night,  not  shutting  out  the  ceaseless 
song  of  the  sea,  come  through  my  windows- 
There  is  no  moon,  but  now  and  again,  over  a 
stark  black  world,  the  vivid  lightning  breaks 
the  darkness  into  light.  Though  all  the  hopes 
of  men  go  out  as  the  flashes  which  seem  to  do 
so  little,  still  for  a  while  they  rent  the  night 
with  promise  of  the  power  above. 


Ill 

THE   STREETS    OF   THE    CITY 

You  turn  out  of  the  Mission  enclosure  into  a 
very  narrow  lane  which  departs  into  the  tortu- 
ous maze  of  the  city  to  the  left  and  right  of  our 
wall.  Straight  in  front  are  a  line  of  Indian 
shops,  such  shops  as  are  a  common  feature  of 
the  city  this  side  of  the  creek.  Some  of  them 
are  very  little  more  than  the  enlarged  entrances 
of  a  row  of  white-walled,  corrugated-iron  roofed 
houses  in  each  of  which  an  Indian  woman  sits 
most  of  the  day,  commonly  in  scarlet  trousers 
and  silver  anklets,  with  a  yellow,  brick-red  or 
green  shiti  about  her  head  and  body.  She 
squats  tailor- wise  behind  a  small  spread  of  mis- 
cellaneous articles — usually  the  green  leaves 
and  other  necessities  of  betel-nut  chewing,  and 
some  small  piles  of  oranges,  cigarettes  and 
Indian  chillies  ;  and  at  her  back,  blocking  your 
view  of  the  house,  is  a  kind  of  pigeon-holed 
barrier  containing  nearly  always  boxes  of 
matches,  dolly  blues,  soap,  candles,  and  paper 


18  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

twists  of  tea.  She  is  a  grave  and  busy  per- 
sonage on  the  whole,  and  is  usually  engaged 
in  mending  bright  clothes  or  stringing  beads 
when  she  is  not  seUing  two  pice  worth  of  goods 
with  the  enthusiasm  of  a  transactor  of  heavy 
business.  In  the  mud  of  the  street  play  her 
children.  As  you  pass,  some  brownish- white 
morsel  picks  itself  up  out  of  the  dirt,  and, 
scantily  dressed  in  a  slip  of  a  shirt,  gazes  at  you 
with  henna-stained  eyes. 

But  pass  down  the  lane.  Here  is  a  mosque 
at  once,  on  your  left,  the  wide  open  door  show- 
ing its  bare  interior,  matted  floor,  and  shallow 
alcove  on  the  Meccan  side,  before  which  you 
can  catch  a  fleeting  glance  of  men,  prostrate 
or  bowing  in  prayer.  Round  by  the  left  we 
go  towards  the  Hostel,  and  you  see  at  once 
what  makes  the  city  so  picturesque.  A  palm 
hangs  over  the  way,  and  the  green  of  its  leaves, 
the  brown  of  its  nuts,  and  the  white  of  the 
wall  over  which  it  leans,  are  thrown  up  against 
the  vivid  blue  of  the  sky  beyond.  Often  it  is 
the  one  splash  of  colour  in  the  blue  and  white 
of  sky  and  street,  unless  some  gaily  dressed 
natives  are  coming  to  meet  you. 

Here  is  one.  He  is  a  Banyan  Indian  merchant 
in  bare  feet,  white  trousers,  white  shirt  hang- 


THE  STREETS  OF  THE  CITY        19 

ing  outside  his  trousers,  and  round  black  '  pill- 
box '  cap.  In  his  arms  is  his  son  and  heir 
dressed  for  some  state  visit.  The  boy  wears 
rich  silk  or  cotton  clothes  of  flaring  colours, 
anklets  and  bracelets  of  heavy  gleaming  silver, 
and  a  cap  ornamented  with  a  zigzag  pattern 
in  green  and  gold  and  set  with  a  plume  of 
white  feathers.  His  baby  face  is  stained  with 
henna,  and  his  finger  tips  are  bright  red  with 
it  too.     He  is  very  proud  of  himself,  I  think. 

But  our  lane  has  wound  round  to  the  right, 
and  for  a  few  yards  you  are  passing  another 
typical  street  scene.  On  the  left  is  the  inevit- 
able mosque,  and  by  it  a  litter  of  unkempt 
graves  over  which  fowls  and  goats  are  wander- 
ing. On  the  right,  heavy  cocoa-nut  thatches 
project  over  raised  mud  platforms  before  wattle- 
daub  huts,  and  the  way  is  narrower  yet.  Here 
squat  some  Arabs,  all  in  white  with  white 
turbans,  the  richest  of  them  with  a  jewelled 
and  silver  crooked  dagger  in  his  belt,  all  look- 
ing incorrigibly  lazy,  very  polite,  and  rather 
inscrutable.  To  them  a  street-merchant  is 
selling  steaming  hot  coffee  from  a  hand  urn 
with  hot  charcoal  beneath  it,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  he  will  pass  on,  clinking  his  cups  to 
obtain    fresh    customers.     If    I    could    bring 


20  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

myself  to  face  those  cups  I  should  rather  like 
to  drink  his  coffee,  but  as  it  is  I  save  my  pice. 
Under  the  shadow  of  the  eaves,  too,  a  Swahili 
woman  is  stirring  a  copper  pan  full  of  brown 
treacly-looking  syrup  over  a  small  fire,  and 
that  also  I  am  curious  about.  It  looks  as  if  it 
might  be  the  father  of  all  the  '  hard-bakes,'  or 
the  grandfather  of  all  the  '  jumbles,'  but  I  am 
certain  that  if  one  stopped  to  inquire  one  would 
never  get  through  the  city. 

Now,  however,  we  are  passing  between  high 
Arab  houses  of  two  or  three  stories,  the  ground- 
floor  bare  and  deserted  and  dirty-looking, 
except  for  a  lazing  Swahili  servant  or  two  on 
the  raised  stone  bench  at  the  door.  Smells 
delight  to  linger  here,  but  we  are  out  in  a 
minute  and  among  the  bazaars.  This  is  Picca- 
dilly Circus  in  embryo,  with  a  khaki-clad 
policeman  on  duty.  His  truncheon  hangs 
down  visibly,  but  he  will  probably  go  and  look 
for  reinforcements  if  there  is  trouble.  His 
main  duty  is  to  watch  the  traffic  direct  itself — 
or  so  it  seems— and  when  a  string  of  donkeys 
meet  half  a  dozen  straining  labourers,  naked 
to  the  waist  and  pushing  a  heavy  trolly-cart, 
there  is  sometimes  good  fun  for  a  minute  or 
two.     As  there  is  also  a  continual  stream  of 


THE  STREETS  OF  THE  CITY        21 

people  in  a  road  not  more  than  three  or  four 
yards  wide,  and  also  a  good  sprinkling  of  goats 
and  fowls,  there  is  often  plenty  of  noise  and 
a  beautiful  mixture  of  smells. 

That  excellent  Banyan  gentleman  of  the 
shop  yonder  will  sell  you  anything.  He  and 
his  fellows  are  venerable  old  men  with  white 
beards,  European  coats,  and  a  peculiar  skirt 
arrangement  tied  up  with  a  wonderful  twist 
that  exhibits  a  varying  length  of  haply  honest 
brown  leg.  Their  shops  are  rather  dark  and 
very  stuffy,  but  you  can  indeed  buy  most 
things  here.  The  only  thing  you  cannot  buy 
is  the  thing  you  want  at  the  moment,  but  after 
all  you  need  not  come  six  thousand  miles  for 
that  experience. 

But  wait  a  minute.  Let  us  turn  sharp  to  the 
left  past  the  high  iron  gates  of  the  Roman 
Catholic  Cathedral,  whose  twin  towers,  with 
their  short  spires,  have  been  showing  ahead 
of  us  between  the  houses  for  some  time.  Here 
is  the  row  of  silversmiths.  In  fascinating 
cases  are  piled  really  beautiful  silver  goods, 
and  on  the  floor  squat  men  in  their  white 
cotton  garments,  sand-papering,  filing,  hammer- 
ing and  polishing.  To  the  right  is  a  shop  you 
can  trust,  its  walls  hung  with  a  strange  mis- 


22  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

cellany  of  ancient  swords  and  guns,  embroidered 
Arab  belts  and  powder-flasks,  necklaces,  carved 
wooden  spoons,  whips  of  hippo  leather,  and 
twisted  iron  rubbish  that  is  not  thrown  away 
simply  because  a  Banyan,  like  a  Jew,  cannot 
do  it.  The  glass  case  is  full  of  ebony  and  silver 
walking  sticks,  and  they  are  not  expensive 
either.  But  I  must  on  ;  I  could  stop  any  day 
buying  sticks.  It  adds  to  the  zest  of  life  to 
have  to  choose  a  walking-cane  with  care  before 
one's  daily  constitutional,  and  I  keep  a  score 
for  the  purpose. 

But  this  is  the  glory  of  the  High  Street.  On 
the  left  is  the  Post  Office  ;  and,  right  opposite, 
are  two  big  shops  full  of  Indian,  Burmese  and 
Japanese  goods,  with  men  selling  them  in 
skirts  and  black  hair  done  up  in  a  '  bun  '  behind 
like  the  good  Singalese  that  they  are.  These 
are  the  really  great  shops  who  live  on  the  mail 
passenger  and  empty  his  pockets  with  great 
regularity.  Up  this  street  lie  the  Court  House, 
the  English  Club,  the  Bank  of  India,  the  shady 
Victoria  Gardens,  and  the  Consulate,  a  big, 
white,  spreading  house  with  a  wide  drive  and 
a  real  lawn  and  an  outlook  over  really  nice 
gardens  to  the  sea.  But  we  turn  the  other 
way  ;  the  street  narrows  ;  we  pass  the  entrance 


THE  STREETS  OF  THE  CITY        23 

to  the  Customs  and  the  way  up  from  the  land- 
ing beach ;  men  are  squatting  on  the  ground 
here,  with  rolls  of  pice  and  rupees  to  change 
all  foreign  money  that  comes  their  way ;  and 
at  length  we  are  out  on  the  open  square  before 
the  Sultan's  old  palace  which  is  now  used  for 
Government  offices,  with  the  sea  glittering 
before  us,  dotted  with  a  steamer  or  two,  a 
fleet  of  dhows  under  bare  poles  to  the  right, 
H.M.S.  Pandora  round  the  corner  of  the  Old 
Consulate  pier,  and  two  or  three  green  islands 
of  the  reef  behind  all.  Across  the  Square,  the 
seven-mile  Bu-bu-bu  railway  ends,  its  open 
trucks  packed  as  a  rule  with  clamouring  crowds 
of  black  and  brown  skins,  and  its  engine  clang- 
ing a  big  bell  as  it  moves  down  the  centre  of  the 
street.  Just  by  its  terminus  is  the  yellow  wall 
and  palm-planted  garden  of  the  old  Sultan's 
palace,  now  being  fitted  for  the  residence  of 
Sayyid  Halifa  and  his  wife.  With  luck,  we 
shall  see  him  in  his  car,  wife  and  child  beside 
him,  a  courtly  smiling  gentleman,  very  pictur- 
esque in  his  rich  Arab  dress,  who  shows  the 
reality  of  his  European  culture  by  not  wearing 
European  clothes. 

We  follow  the  railway,  and  in  a  little  plunge 
into  the  native  quarter.     I  do  not  know  how 


24  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

to  describe  it.  The  white  houses  have  given 
place  to  cocoa- thatch,  mud  walls,  and  corru- 
gated iron ;  the  Swahili  you  meet  are  much 
darker  than  the  Arabs,  the  men  usually  dressed 
in  rather  ragged,  white,  native  dress,  suggestive 
of  a  shirt  and  skirt,  and  the  women  in  blue 
shitis,  outlined  with  patterns  of  the  weirdest 
design — motor-cars,  clocks,  household  furniture, 
or  even  balloons— of  which  one  is  wound  closely 
round  the  body  from  the  armpits  to  the  knees 
and  the  other  worn  like  a  kind  of  veil.  Very 
many  have  something  on  their  heads,  balanced 
with  a  skill  a  juggler  would  envy,  either  a  tin 
can  for  water,  or  a  bundle  of  firewood,  or  even 
a  soda-water  bottle,  upright  and  very  tempting 
as  a  new  species  of  Aunt  Sally  !  Here  the  sun 
is  intolerably  hot  on  the  dusty,  sandy,  dirty 
track,  and  you  must  pass  a  good  distance 
before  the  native  city  quarter  gives  place  to 
the  native  suburb,  and  that  in  turn  to  the 
open  country.  A  wide  creek  separates  city 
and  suburb,  and  instead  of  passing  over  the 
bridge  we  will  turn  hard  to  the  right  down  the 
creek  road,  shady  with  cocoanut-palms  and 
almond-trees.  First  come  the  new  markets, 
red-tiled,  and  interesting  in  the  early  morning 
when  the  country  folk  have  brought  in  their 


ceee 


THE  STREETS  OF  THE  CITY        25 

goods— fruit,  fish,  livestock,  and  pottery  for 
the  most  part.  Past  these  a  tall  spire  lifts 
itself  against  the  sky,  and  you  are  back  in 
Mkunazini. 

Let  us  walk  down  under  the  wide-spreading 
African  almond-trees  to  the  edge  of  the  creek, 
before  we  turn  in  at  the  gate.  Across  a  few 
hundred  yards  of  water  you  see  a  really  African 
and  not  an  Eastern  scene,  for  here  the  brown 
huts  come  down  to  the  water's  edge  and  a 
fringe  of  palms  behind  closes  them  in.  A  red 
roof  shows  conspicuously  in  the  foreground,  a 
mission  property  in  which  a  Christ  Church 
student  lived  in  days  gone  by  and  did  much 
translation  work.  A  constant  stream  of  dug- 
out canoes  with  outriggers,  poled  by  sturdy 
natives  and  loaded  with  women  returning 
from  market,  are  busy  at  work,  while  a  crowd 
of  children  are  at  play  in  the  water  across  the 
flow.  You  can  see  the  sun  glinting  on  their 
brown  bodies  as  they  jump  up.  Those  two 
little  chaps  in  the  roughest  of  dug-outs  are 
members  of  a  semi-aquatic  brotherhood  who 
visit  all  the  mails  and  dive  for  coppers. 

Turn,  and  look  up  the  creek,  to  where,  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  away,  the  water  ends  against 
the  Nazi  Moja  road  which  leads  to  the  German 


26  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

Club,  Kiungani,  and  Mbweni.  You  can  just 
see  the  wall  of  a  Hindu  cemetery  beyond  it ; 
the  cemetery  itself  touches  the  sea  again,  for  the 
city  stands  on  a  perfect  peninsula.  Down  the 
creek  is  the  bridge,  with  the  brown  water 
racing  under  it  as  the  tide  goes  down  ;  ancient 
dhows  are  stranded  on  the  banks  here  and 
there,  and  the  medley  of  the  huts  in  Malindi 
push  out  almost  into  the  stream.  And  yet,  in 
the  prospect,  there  is  greater  interest  than  any 
these  afford.  Round  that  bend  is  a  white 
house,  distinct  from  the  huts  in  the  sun,  where 
Dr.  Livingstone  lived  for  some  months  before 
the  interior  swallowed  him  on  a  march  that 
ended  by  a  lonely  bedside  at  Ilala.  The  old 
Presbyterian  might  not  have  owned  it,  but 
he  died  on  his  knees,  and  surely  he  lives  to 
pray. 

Turn  in  at  the  gate  ;  to  pray  is  our  work  too. 
You  have  seen  Arab,  Swahili,  and  Indian  since 
you  set  out,  for  Africa  and  Asia  meet  here— 
and  Europe  also.  Our  task  lies  with  all  three. 
We  have  to  save  Africa  from  Asia,  giving  the 
African  a  religion  which  will  make  him  man 
enough,  in  the  true  sense,  to  stand  against 
the  incoming  Indian  in  the  world  of  labour 
and  against  Mohammed  in  the  world  of  faith ; 


THE  STREETS  OF  THE  CITY        27 

to  teach  Asia  the  true  philosophy  of  God  that 
is  only  written  in  the  Face  of  Jesus  Christ ;  and 
to  rouse  Europe  to  a  realisation  that  His 
Kingship  has  a  place  in  political  and  social 
life.     The  task  is  hard. 


IV 

THE    HOUSE    OF   ISLAM 

It  is  hardly  possible  to  doubt  that  this  island 
on  the  verge  of  the  Indian  Sea  is  at  a  momen- 
tous crisis  in  her  story.  That  great  Renais- 
sance of  the  East  which  has  given  Japan  a 
Western  constitution,  Korea  a  new  life,  China 
a  republic,  and  India  the  birth-throes  of 
national  consciousness,  has  spread  indubitably 
throughout  the  House  of  Islam  also.  Our  eyes 
here  perceive  the  East  as  it  is  not  possible  to 
do  at  home,  and  we  are  amazed  by  what  we 
see.  Take,  for  example,  that  incredible  rush  on 
the  part  of  Hindu  and  Mohammedan  in  India 
to  include  sixty  million  hitherto  outcast  pariahs 
within  their  folds  because  of  the  recent  crea- 
tion of  electorates  for  the  Indian  Legislative 
Council — millions  who  might  be  subject  to  the 
moulding  of  the  Christian  spirit  to-day  if  we 
had  stopped  quarrelling  at  home  to  think 
about  them.  That  movement  towards  the 
masses  across  the  water  has  its  counterpart 

28 


THE  HOUSE  OF  ISLAM  29 

with  us.  Only  the  other  day  a  strong  deputa- 
tion waited  on  the  Consul-General  from  the 
'  Young  Arab '  Club,  asking  for  a  decree  of 
compulsory  education  throughout  the  island, 
a  request  not  yet  granted,  but  sufficiently  in- 
dicative of  what  must  come  almost  certainly 
in  our  generation.  It  is  impossible  not  to 
wish  it,  as  one  stands  any  night  in  the  bazaars 
to  watch  the  muttering  crowds  gathered  round 
the  grotesque  pictures  on  sale  there  of  victori- 
ous Turks  bayonetting  thousands  of  terror- 
stricken  Italians  on  impossible  redoubts,  and 
as  one  realises  that  this  fever  is  a  kind  of  last 
symptom  in  a  religion  that  is  ceasing  to  be  a 
Faith  although  propping  itself  up  as  a  Fanati- 
cism, For  the  true  Faith  of  Islam,  as  a  Faith, 
is  disappearing.  Asked  the  other  day,  the 
matron  of  the  Government  Native  Hospital, 
a  woman  of  many  years'  experience,  said  that 
the  city  was  losing  its  religion  in  immorality. 
And  what  does  that  mean  ?  It  means  that 
the  old  restraints  are  going,  that  the  people 
have  looked  on  the  West,  and  that  the  sight 
has  turned  their  heads.  Just  this  last  month 
or  two  the  Sunday  native  dances  across  the 
creek  have  become  exhibitions,  on  the  part  of 
the  Swahili  women  of  the  streets,  of  European 


80  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

ballet  and  skirt  dances  in  European  dress.  I 
can  but  hint  at  what  this  means.  The  bishop 
was  told  last  week  that  only  two  mosques  in 
the  town  can  gather  their  requisite  forty  wor- 
shippers for  the  Friday  4  a.m.  liturgical  prayers, 
and  the  Consul-General  has  said  that  the 
Government  is  going  to  build  the  mosque  in 
a  new  cemetery  because  the  leading  Arabs  are 
not  religiously  eager  enough  to  pay  for  it 
themselves.  I  may  be  wrong,  but  I  am  myself 
convinced  that  our  part  of  the  East  is  becoming 
ashamed  to  pray.  Prayer  does  not  seem  to 
them  to  be  a  part  of  that  Western  progress 
which  they  would  imitate.  And  let  us  beware, 
for  an  East  that  does  not  pray  means  the  in- 
troduction of  a  new  and  terrible  factor  in  the 
development  of  the  race. 

Now  Islam  has  had  its  defenders  among  a 
certain  class  of  Western  writers  and  travellers, 
but  even  among  these  the  tide  is  turning.  Sir 
Harry  Johnston  has  recently  published  a 
stringent  criticism.  The  truth  seems  to  be 
that  the  Crescent  destroys  the  primitive  social 
and  r(  ligious  life  of  native  tribes,  as  surely  as 
does  Western  civilisation,  but  itself,  bound  as 
it  is  to  go  down  before  the  spread  of  know- 
ledge, has  no  real  strength  to  give  them.   Here, 


THE  HOUSE  OF  ISLAM  81 

for  example,  the  Sultan,  of  whom  I  have  seen 
a  good  deal,  seems  to  take  up  that  kind  of 
attitude  towards  his  religion  which  the  edu- 
cated but  decent  Roman  of  the  late  Empire 
took  towards  Paganism.     It  is  an  attitude  of 
tolerant   modification.     At   his   institution   he 
swore  the  oath  of  allegiance  on  a  Koran  which 
no  Christian  was  allowed  to  touch,   it  being 
solemnly  carried  in  by  the  chief  mullahs  ;    it 
was  returned  to  the  keeping  of  Christians,  and 
I  with  many  others  have  handled  it  at  the 
Consulate.       By  traditional  Mohammedanism 
he  ought  to  have  several  wives  and  keep  them 
secluded  ;   he  not  only  treats  his  one  wife  with 
an  educated  courtesy,  but  offends  Arab  taste 
by  his  definite  morality.     The  Prophet  cursed 
all  pictures  as  idolatry ;    in  his  study  a  large 
portrait  of  the  King  stands  upon  his  table,  and 
others  decorate  the  walls.     Or  again,  one  of 
the  most  striking  signs  in  the  town  is  that  the 
African  priest  of  the  Mission  tells  his  bishop 
that  he  has  never  had  so  many  Arab  visitors 
as  now,  men  who  come  by  night  to  ask  what 
our  religion  is  and  who  submit  cases  to  him  for 
a  Christian  judgment  which  they  obey  rather  than 
the  Mohammedan  law  of  the  Government  courts. 
Or   again,    Ramadhan   has   just   come   and 


32  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

gone,  and  with  it  a  strange  stirring  among  the 
Moslem  leaders.  The  decay  of  Islam  as  a 
religious  power  was  really  apparent  to  the 
older  Arabs.  His  Highness  endeavoured  to 
bring  about  a  great  open-air  demonstration  at 
the  close  of  the  month,  on  modern  lines,  but 
this  scheme  totally  broke  down,  partly  through 
the  apathy  of  the  people,  partly  through  the 
internal  bitterness  of  the  sects.  Recently,  too, 
we  have  had  case  after  case  of  young  Arabs 
sufficiently  Europeanised  to  give  up  their 
faith,  although  politically  they  back  up  the 
Sheikhs  who  are  in  a  frenzy  of  excitement  over 
the  Constantinople  and  Tripoli  troubles,  and 
join  eagerly  enough  in  the  yells  of  a  crowd 
which  to-day  greeted  the  announcement  of  the 
declaration  of  a  state  of  war  in  the  Near  East. 
They  know  themselves  in  what  a  state  of  transi- 
tion their  world  is.  The  best  among  them 
chafe  at  their  own  impotence,  and  forget  their 
instinctive  idleness  to  curse  at  a  situation  which 
stirs  the  blood  and  allows  no  outlet  for  it.  But 
to  read  that  the  old  order  is  giving  place  to  a 
new  with  a  rapidity  almost  beyond  belief,  is 
one  thing ;  it  is  another  to  watch  it  from  day 
to  day.  Watching,  one  realises  how  vital  is 
the    question    of   our    attitude    in   the    crisis. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  ISLAM  38 

Beyond  doubt  the  key  to  the  situation  Ues 
with  us.  Yet  the  Church  needs  stabihty, 
assurance,  and  devotion  along  practical  lines 
of  institutionalism  and  self-discipline ;  the 
Government,  a  settled  policy  fearlessly  carried 
out.  For  lack  of  these  things,  Religions  and 
Governments  have  failed  a  score  of  times  in 
just  such  a  crisis  as  this  ;  and— God  help  us  !— 
it  has  ever  been  a  sign  of  doom  that  kings  and 
priests  have  sat  blind  in  their  palaces  while 
the  foundations  rocked  beneath  them. 

Now  it  is  sometimes  urged  against  Missions 
that  they  destroy  the  foundations  of  heathen 
society  without  providing  a  substitute  which 
the  people  will  accept,  but  what  has  struck 
me  overwhelmingly  during  my  few  months  so 
far  out  here  is  the  upheaval  of  Eastern  life  by 
Western  civilisation  apart  from  Missions.  I 
believe  that  far  more  significant  than  the  entry 
of  the  East  into  competition  with  the  West— 
'  The  Yellow  Peril  '—is  the  entry  of  the  West 
into  the  life  of  the  East.  There  is  no  room  to 
write  much,  but  I  believe  we  are  watching  the 
disappearance  of  nearly  all  that  is  distinctly 
Eastern  before  the  inevitable  flood  of  European 
civilisation.  The  new  wine  must  burst  the 
old  bottles.     At  home  there  is  much  talk  of 

c 


34  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

the  wisdom  and  culture  of  the  East,  and  no 
doubt  the  East  has  wisdom  and  culture  to  con- 
tribute towards  the  final  enriching  of  the 
Human  Race ;  but  here  at  least  the  West 
appears  so  immeasurably  stronger,  yes  and 
better,  that  one  is  forced  to  conclude  that  the 
East  will  largely  disappear  before  it.  Hence 
I  often  wonder  if  our  missionary  policy  is  based 
on  the  wisest  foundation.  For  myself  I  be- 
lieve, for  example,  that  all  that  is  essentially 
Swahili  must  vanish  before  the  European.  To 
begin  with,  what  future  has  their  language 
save  that  of  another  Erse  or  Gaelic  ?  For 
even  if  you  could  compel  the  flood  of  white 
settlers  to  learn  an  adequate  Swahili,  you 
could  not  prevent  the  natives  learning  English. 
And  why  should  you  ?  Why  withhold  from 
the  children  of  to-morrow  a  new  language, 
rich  in  literature,  universal  in  diffusion,  and 
incomparably  abler  in  expression  ?  Surely  the 
only  hope  for  the  Swahili  lies  in  the  possibility 
of  his  assimilating  very  much  that  is  socially 
and  intellectually  as  well  as  religiously  Western, 
and  our  best  plan  would  be  to  give  him  these 
from  a  Christian  source  that  he  may  be  strong 
to  resist  those  evils  that  are  bound  to  flow  in 
from  the  secular.     There  may,  of  course,  be 


THE  HOUSE  OF  ISLAM  85 

treasures  in  his  national  consciousness  which 
should  be  saved,  but  I  am  inclined  to  think 
that  if  these  be  worth  anything  in  the  long 
run,  they  will  be  able  to  save  themselves. 
Meanwhile  one  asks  in  vain  of  those  who  talk 
so  glibly,  a  list  of  such  salvage.  In  religion 
indications  are  sometimes  given ;  but,  however 
limited  my  personal  experience,  it  has  so  far 
invariably  been  that  the  one  obstacle  to  such 
enrichment,  and  the  one  indifferent  element, 
is  that  of  the  native  himself.  And  in  this  he  is 
wiser  than  we.  He  knows  his  own  weakness  ; 
we  have  no  confidence  in  our  own  strength. 

In  any  case  the  significance  of  it  all  is  that 
the  Church,  deaf  and  blind,  is  having  much  of 
her  work  done  for  her ;  that  another  plough 
is  irresistibly  turning  up  virgin  soil ;  and  that 
every  process  of  the  parable,  here  of  hardening, 
there  of  weeds,  is  proceeding  apace  about  her. 
On  the  one  hand,  superficial  Islam  is  spreading. 
Recently,  reviewing  the  diocese,  the  Bishop 
pointed  to  a  formerly  pagan  land  of  some  sixty 
thousand  square  miles  south  of  the  Rovuma 
river,  from  which  every  person  who  has  recently 
crossed  that  river  into  Mission  territory  has 
been  Mohammedan,  and  in  whose  biggest  town 
(which,    when   we   passed   through   it    in    the 


86  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

'eighties  on  the  way  towards  Nyasa,  had  no 
mosques),  the  twentieth  has  recently  been 
built. 

On  the  other  hand,  behind  her  outposts, 
traditional  Islam  is  demoralised  and  doomed. 
She  will  not,  indeed,  rot  slowly  as  Eastern 
Orthodoxy  has  done  under  conditions  not  so 
unlike ;  wc  may  hope  better  things  of  her  than 
that.  But  where  is  any  adequate  attempt  to 
direct  the  thousands  of  hurrying  feet  into  the 
highway  of  the  Kingdom  of  God  ?  Where  is 
the  spirit  of  Loyola  and  Lull  ?  Where  is  the 
Lord  God  of  Elijah  ? 


KINYOZI 

Two  days  after  my  arrival,  as  I  sat  writing 
at  my  desk  with  a  thousand  scents,  in  which 
frangipanni  predominated,  coming  in  at  the 
open  door,  I  was  startled  by  the  sudden  ex- 
clamation '  Ram— Ram  '  at  my  side.  I  turned 
in  haste  to  see  the  voice  which  spake  with  me, 
and  being  turned  I  first  saw  the  barber.^  De- 
spite his  greeting,  which  might  as  well  have 
been  the  cry  of  a  savage  about  to  scalp  me,  I 
soon  discovered  that  he  was  an  entirely  civilised 
person  of  a  most  agreeable  disposition,  whose 
sole  interest  in  my  scalp  lay  in  the  clipping  of  its 
hair.  Professionally,  he  has  interests  also  in 
one's  chin.  That,  however,  I  resisted,  until  one 
day,  being  at  once  in  a  painfully  unshaven  con- 
dition and  also  in  an  incorrigibly  lazy  one,  I 
consented  to  go  through  what  turned  out  to 
be  one  of  those  experiences  to  be  wished  for 
once  only  in  a  lifetime.  Squatting  on  the 
floor,  he  produced  from  a  little  brown  bag  (his 

1  Swahili^  'Kinyozi.* 

87 


88  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

inseparable  companion) :  a  small  copper  bowl 
elaborately  carved ;  a  cake  of  brown  soap ; 
a  rag,  which  being  unwound  disclosed  a 
shaving  brush  of  ancient  pattern  ;  and  a  razor 
in  a  much  battered  case.  He  politely  begged 
the  boon  of  enough  water  to  fill  his  bowl.  That 
granted,  he  lathered  me  firmly  but  respect- 
fully, cleaned  his  fingers  in  the  bowl,  pushed 
back  my  head  in  the  chair,  and  raised  his 
weapon.  I  closed  my  eyes,  and  resigned  my 
life  into  the  hands  of  Providence.  In  a  little, 
the  repeated  release  of  my  head  and  the  rapid 
return  of  pressure  each  time  caused  me  to  open 
them,  when  I  perceived  that  the  heathen  was 
gracefully  wiping  his  razor  at  each  stroke  upon 
the  palm  of  his  hand.  But  it  was  not  this 
which  taught  me  to  be  firm  upon  the  subject 
of  shaving  ;  rather  it  was  the  spectacle  of  the 
same  brush  on  a  Banyan  chin  one  morning  in 
the  streets  of  the  city.  .  .  . 

We  are,  however,  such  friends  now  that  I  am 
sure  he  will  forgive  me  if  I  describe  his  fasci- 
nating dress.  He  wears,  as  to  the  feet,  the 
loose,  heelless  slippers  of  India  without  socks 
or  stockings ;  and  in  the  place  of  trousers  is 
an  arrangement  which  always  baffles  me.  It 
is  certainly  a  sheet,  but  were  I  asked  to  wear  a 


KINYOZI  39 

sheet  I  should  infaUibly  wear  it  Hke  a  skirt. 
Not  so  the  barber  :  he  comes  of  an  age-long 
civilisation.  His  sheet  therefore  is  gathered  at 
the  waist  and  allowed  to  encase  the  legs  like 
two  wide  bloomers  to  the  knee.  But  this 
engaging  arrangement  would  seem  to  lack  on 
the  score  of  decency,  since  there  is  no  fastening 
of  any  kind,  and  the  free  winds  of  heaven 
display  great  lengths  of  brown  leg  at  every 
gust.  And  yet  one's  ultimate  fear  is  never 
accomplished,  no,  not  in  half  a  gale.  In  the 
end  the  intelligent  observer  gives  up  the  hope- 
less puzzle,  and  passes  to  an  examination  of 
the  shirt  and  European  coat  above  the  sheet. 
A  turban  circles  his  head,  and  a  heavy  mous- 
tache curls  up  to  ears  decorated  in  a  manner 
calculated  to  arrest  the  wandering  gaze  of  the 
most  restless  customer.  The  lobe  of  the  ear 
is  bored  to  admit  of  a  chain  at  least  eight 
inches  long,  from  which  a  brass  ball  is  suspended 
by  a  hook.  Then  the  chain  curls  affection- 
ately round  the  outside  of  the  ear,  descends 
over  the  top,  and  passes  through  a  boring 
there  to  link  up  finally  with  the  hook  in  the 
lobe. 

Despite  his  ears,  I  have  an  enormous  respect 
for  my  barber.     He  is  perhaps  thirty,  and  the 


40  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

most  thrifty,  contented,  patient,  and  yet  insis- 
tent of  men.  The  triumph  of  this  latter  quaUty 
lies  in  the  fact  that  he  takes  a  rupee  off  me 
every  time  he  attends  to  my  hair,  and  this 
despite  persistent  '  hunger-striking '  on  my 
part,  as  well  as  reasoned  arguments  based  on 
a  comparison  of  even  Parisian  tariffs.  For  the 
rest,  the  manner  of  his  living  and  his  business 
is  proof  enough.  He  shares  a  three-roomed 
house  with  eight  more  young  men  of  his  caste  ; 
he  has  but  one  holiday  in  the  year,  and  that 
of  only  two  nights  and  one  day— bitter  nights 
for  us  since  the  colony  of  him  and  his  adjoins 
the  wall  of  our  compound ;  and  he  keeps  a 
wife,  several  children,  his  parents,  and  a  col- 
lection of  sisters-in-law,  in  distant  Bombay. 
The  years  of  his  exile  are  nine.  Upon  three 
hundred  and  sixty-four  days  in  each  one  of 
them,  wet  or  fine,  he  sets  out  in  the  morning 
with  his  bag.  He  will  squat  anywhere  and 
shave  you.  You  may  see  him  in  some  den 
with  the  half-barbered  head  of  a  Banyan 
in  his  hands,  or  by  the  washing  place  of  a 
mosque  with  a  bearded  Mussulman  under 
treatment.  For  my  rupee  he  will  squat  on 
the  baraza  as  long  as  I  care  to  keep  him,  and 
come  up  smiling  at  the  end.     For  two  such 


KINYOZI  41 

customers  he  will  walk  four  miles,  and  I  believe 
that  he  would  as  cheerfully  trudge  eight  for 
one.  And  the  hours  of  his  labour  depend 
exclusively  upon  the  demand. 

We  do  not  find  it  easy  to  talk,  for  he  has 
no  English,  and  I  as  yet  little  Swahili  and  no 
Gujerati.  Moreover,  his  Swahili  is  of  a  peculiar 
kind,  whereof  every  verb  gets  no  further  than 
the  infinitive  mood,  and  the  personal  pronouns 
reign  supreme  in  the  pronominal  sphere.  His 
universal  negative  is  a  word  which  means  '  this 
is  not  the  place,'  and  if  one  is  firm  enough  at 
any  time  to  decline  his  attentions,  it  must  be 
in  the  terms  of  a  formula  which,  being  inter- 
preted, runs,  '  This  is  not  the  place  to  cut '  ! 
With  regard  to  his  inquiries  concerning  my 
domestic  arrangements  at  home,  I  have  been 
compelled  to  say,  '  This  is  not  the  place  to 
marry ' ;  but  it  is  with  greater  satisfaction  that 
I  remark  with  emphasis  at  intervals  in  our 
acquaintance,  '  This  is  not  the  place  of  silver.' 
However,  by  such  means  we  have  disclosed  to 
each  other  our  earthly  hopes  and  fears,  and  in 
a  like  way  I  have  come  a  little  at  his  for  heaven. 

That  began  in  an  unlucky  happening  some 
months  ago.  While  waiting  the  unfastening 
of  his  leather  bag,  I  was  clever  enough  to  slay 


42  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

a  mosquito,  the  colour  of  whose  crushed  remains 
indicated  that  he  had  been  engaged  in  crime;  and 
I  naturally  appealed  for  praise.  But  Ram-rasul 
was  horrified,  for  the  pitiful  corpse  upon  my 
arm,  he  pointed  out,  might  be  that  of  his  own 
lamented  brother  if  not  of  my  honoured  grand- 
father. I  expressed  certainty  with  regard  to 
my  grandfather,  but  pushed  inquiries.  I  found 
that  he  worshipped  the  great  god  Ram,  a 
distant  relation  by  connections  (involving  un- 
intelligible Gujerati)  of  the  Lord  Vishnu,  but 
that  his  worship  involved  neither  prayers 
('  This  is  not  the  place  to  pray  ' !)  nor  liturgical 
devotions,  and  but  one  feast.  Ram-rasul  did 
not  know  the  meaning  of  the  feast,  but  he 
invited  me  to  see  it.  Accordingly,  a  few 
nights  later,  I  was  guided  by  unforgettable 
noises  to  a  street  corner  at  which  Ram  was 
enjoying  the  offering  of  his  worshippers.  Three 
men  with  tom-toms  kept  up  incessantly  the 
most  irritating  of  beatings,  and  a  score  of 
others  danced  round  a  fire  to  a  kind  of  Red 
Indian  shuffle,  armed  with  sticks,  which  they 
beat  the  one  against  the  other  at  every  whirl. 
The  spectators  howled  a  chant,  and  leapt 
eagerly  into  the  place  of  an  exhausted  per- 
former when  he  dropped  out.     Not  that  any 


KINYOZI  48 

one  seemed  much  excited ;  indeed,  all  scattered 
regularly  enough  when  the  Swahili  policeman 
appeared.  But  with  his  going  they  returned ; 
and  I  lapsed  into  fitful  slumber  later  on,  with 
a  Ram-Ram-Ram  chorus  borne  on  the  music 
of  tom-toms  for  a  lullaby. 

And  yet  Ram-rasul  is  near  the  Kingdom.  It 
was  after  our  talk  that,  having  made  his 
usual  collection  of  my  admittedly  auburn  hair 
on  the  ground,  he  straightened  himself  and 
paused  before  his  going.  Pointing  gravely  to 
a  crucifix  on  my  wall,  he  said  in  his  queer 
language,  *  Your  God  loved.'  '  No,'  said  I, 
'  loves\  ,  .  .  But  since  I  have  reflected  that  my 
own  hopes  for  Ram-rasul  rest  on  yet  another 
saying,  and  that  an  Apostolic  one.  It  is  that 
God  is  Love. 


VI 

BY-PATHS  THROUGH  COCOA-NUTS  AND  CLOVES 

To-day  the  country  folk  were  still  coming  in 
to  market  as  we  left  the  town  by  the  North 
Road  which,  crossing  the  creek  that  makes  the 
city  a  peninsula  by  a  stone  bridge  lined  with 
crouching  beggars,  runs  first  through  the  native 
Indian  bazaar.  The  sandy  way  is  only  a  few 
yards  wide  at  the  best,  and  down  its  centre 
runs  a  small-gauge  railway,  whose  ridiculous 
engine  clangs  a  bell  continually  as  it  goes,  to 
clear  people  off  the  track.  The  sun  is  already 
well  up  in  the  azure  sky,  and  it  is  getting  hot 
among  these  dusty,  confined,  and  over-stuffed 
shops.  They  stretch  on  either  side.  Eastern 
rather  than  African  in  their  construction,  the 
shopkeeper  sitting  tailor-like  on  the  mud  floor 
of  his  raised  doorway,  and  selling  the  strings 
of  bright  beads,  the  shining  tin- ware,  the  many- 
coloured  clothes,  and  the  brown  pottery  all 
about  him.  '  Him,'  but  often  it  is  '  her,'  and 
she  makes  a  bright  splash  of  colour  in  scarlet 


c  cc  c 
c  c  c  c 


c  c  c  c 

<  'c 
c  t 


•  ••• 


COCOA-NUTS  AND  CLOVES  45 

or  yellow  trousers,  silver  anklets,  purple-green 
or  brick-red  flowing  shiti,  and  nose  ornaments. 
Children,  scantily  clothed  in  a  kind  of  shirt, 
pick  themselves  up  out  of  the  dirt  to  make  way 
for  us,  staring  with  henna-stained  eyes.  The 
track  itself  is  crowded  with  Swahilis  bringing 
in  country  produce  on  their  heads — a  big  bunch 
of  bananas,  a  bow-shaped  bundle  of  bending 
sugar-cane,  a  basket  of  platted  cocoa-nut 
leaves  heaped  with  the  nuts,  or  a  load  of  fire- 
wood you  would  not  conceive  it  possible  to 
carry.  Now  and  again  we  make  way  for  an 
Arab  on  his  donkey,  dressed  almost  exactly  as 
Abraham  was,  except  that  perhaps  that  silver- 
handled  dagger  in  his  girdle  is  too  elaborately 
chased.  He  is  preceded  by  a  servant,  possibly 
a  slave,  driving  other  donkeys  well  laden  for 
the  markets  ;  and  then  the  crowd  closes  in 
again,  and  the  noise  flows  on  from  the  human 
river  that  it  is. 

But  in  a  little  the  houses  thin,  we  spin  round 
a  corner,  down  a  short  hill,  and  are  out  in  a 
moment  among  the  shambas.  These  are  the 
plantations  that  cover  the  island ;  and  since 
there  is  no  artificial  boundary  between  them, 
and  cultivation  spreads  only  in  patches,  it 
means  that  the  entire  island  is  one  stretch  of 


46  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

tropical  woods.  It  is  sown  with  little  low- 
thatched,  brown  mud- walled  homesteads,  each 
with  its  small  court  fenced  in  by  cocoa-nut 
matting,  with  miniature  huts  for  fowls  and 
tools.  Here  and  there  these  cluster  into  a 
village,  the  grass  worn  from  between  the 
houses,  and  the  whole  buried  in  the  banana 
thickets  which  almost  invariably  surround  them. 
But  we  will  wait  for  more  description  until  we 
are  well  in  the  country. 

Our  road  is  running  by  the  still,  blue  sea, 
fringed  with  a  coral  beach  and  high  cocoa-nut 
palms,  and  dotted,  like  emeralds  in  the  sun- 
light, with  the  islands  of  the  reef.  Looking 
back  over  our  shoulders  through  the  naked 
slender  trunks,  the  city  lies  glittering  in  a 
white  huddle  of  roofs  on  its  long  promontory. 
The  white  roof  line  is  irregular,  and  it  is  broken 
by  the  many-coloured  flags  of  the  foreign  con- 
sulates, some  bigger  houses,  and  the  thin  spire 
of  our  English  Mission  sanctuary.  Sanctuary, 
indeed,  where  once  the  slave-trade  centred  for 
all  this  coast,  and  where  now  the  body  of  one 
of  our  greatest  bishops  lies  behind  the  high 
altar.  We  were  at  the  Sacrifice  before  his 
grave  only  this  morning,  lifting  the  immaculate 
Offering  to  the  Father  for  all  these  people  so 


COCOA-NUTS  AND  CLOVES  47 

hard  to  move,  so  difficult  to  teach,  so  dear  to 
God.  But  to-day  our  object  is  to  penetrate 
to  a  distant  corner  of  the  island  to  see  if  we 
may  perhaps  plant  an  out-school  there  and  one 
of  our  newly  trained  African  teachers. 

The  road  leads  towards  the  quaintly  named 
Bu-bu-bu,  but  at  about  the  fifth  mile-post,  and 
before  we  near  the  village,  we  can  see  a  gaunt 
ruin  by  the  sea,  on  high  ground.  It  is  not  old, 
though,  for  only  a  century  ago  nothing  stood 
there  at  all.  Now,  however,  the  walls  are  in  a 
last  decay,  hung  thickly  with  tangled  creepers, 
and  Bet-el-Mtoni  has  taken  its  place  among 
the  many  ruined  palaces  of  the  island.  It  was 
in  1840  that  Say y id  Said,  Imam  of  Muscat  and 
conqueror  of  East  Africa,  moved  his  court 
from  Arabia,  and  we  are  passing  the  remains 
of  his  greatest  palace.  Every  new  sultan  built 
one  new  palace  or  more,  and  most  of  them  were 
deserted  on  his  death,  the  climate  and  the  vege- 
tation soon  ruining  them.  Sayyid  Said  once 
kept  an  establishment  of  some  two  thousand 
slaves,  concubines,  and  wives  here,  and  the 
place  was  busy  with  life.  There  were  great 
baths,  stables,  and  out-houses,  and  his  women 
fared  well,  for  Said  was  a  good  father  and  a 
kind  husband.   He  himself  aided  early  attempts 


48  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

at  the  suppression  of  the  slave-trade.  But 
even  so,  Bet-el-Mtoni  was  the  seat  of  all  that 
doomed  Arab  and  Moslem  civilisation,  for 
here  women  were  encouraged  to  be  ignorant, 
wanton,  and  busy  only  with  trivial  occupa- 
tions, and  here  the  master  was  a  despot  with 
no  one  to  stay  his  lust  and  cruelty.  It  chanced 
that  Said  was  unusually  moderate  ;  but  he 
was  good  despite  his  social  system.  That 
system  permitted  his  son,  the  Sultan  Bargash, 
to  flog  to  death  a  sister  for  smiling  at  a 
European,  and  whip  a  wife  so  badly  with  his 
own  hands  that  death  resulted.  And  even 
Said's  end  was  hastened  by  his  excesses  in  the 
harem. 

So  Bu-bu-bu  has  sad  memories  as  one  turns 
into  it.  To  our  left,  as  we  spin  down  the 
short  hill,  a  low  stone  mosque  resounds  with 
the  sound  of  prayer,  for  Ramadan  began  this 
week,  and  we  notice  the  invariable  features — 
the  little  alcove  built  out  Mecca-wards,  the 
place  of  washing,  and  the  bare  interior.  The  vil- 
lage itself  is  humming  with  cheerful  life.  The 
Government  has  built  one  of  its  markets  here, 
and  under  the  red-tiled  roof,  on  great  raised 
slabs  of  stone,  lie  fish  and  fruit  in  rich  profu- 
sion.    Every  one  is  chattering  away,  and  the 


THROUGH  A  CLOVE   PLANTATION 


COCOA-NUTS  AND  CLOVES  49 

sellers  are  doing  a  brisk  trade,  for  during  this 
month's  fast  more  food  is  sold  (to  be  eaten 
between  6  p.m.  and  6  a.m.)  than  in  any  other 
month  throughout  the  year.  In  that  corner 
is  a  man  busily  husking  cocoa-nuts  in  the 
milky  stage  of  their  development,  for  when  the 
sun  has  set,  pious  Moslems,  who  have  not 
tasted  food  or  drink  since  its  rising,  begin  the 
night's  orgy  with  these  madafu. 

Now  we  are  away  for  the  twelfth  mile-stone 
with  the  last  big  village  behind  us.     The  road 
is  more  than  beautiful,  especially  when  it  dips 
to  cross  the  sluggish  brown  streams  from  the 
slight  hills  on  our  right,  flowering  rushes  and 
bamboos  creeping  down  to  the  waterside,  and 
big   fish    swimming   lazily    by.     The    country 
stretches    away,    sometimes    in   wide    sloping 
meadows,  sometimes  in  close  plantations.   Here 
a  great  wood  of  cocoa-nuts  rises  on  either  side, 
the  waving  green  fans  atop  of  the  long  bare 
brown  poles,  and  the  blue  sky  over  all ;   there 
close-set  cloves,  with  thick,  glossy  green  leaves, 
are  planted  in  avenues  which  remind  you  of 
the  hop-fields  of  Kent  or  the  vineyards  of  Pro- 
vence ;    and  everywhere  the  little  patches  of 
muhogo    (cassava)    rise,    shoulder-high,    from 
their  red  ridges  of  earth.     Sometimes  a  flight  of 


50  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

little  weaver-birds  goes  whirling  by,  and  some- 
times the  African  shrike  cries  from  a  thicket 
with  a  note  like  air  bubbling  sweetly  through 
water  and  with  a  timbre  reminiscent  of  the 
cuckoo.  Goats  and  humped  African  cows  are 
tethered  here  and  there  where  the  grass  is  rich, 
and  their  bleating  comes  shrill  and  clear  in  the 
pure  air  from  homesteads  out  of  sight. 

When  we  reach  our  milestone,  we  turn  off 
the  road  on  to  a  narrow  shamba  path,  and  plunge 
into  all  this  luxuriance  for  ourselves.  We  are 
on  one  of  those  tracks  which  run  everywhere 
in  Africa,  and  which  one  bicycles  along  with 
varying  luck.  It  is  only  two  or  three  feet 
wide,  a  red  streak  before  you  in  this  rich  soil ; 
and  we  swerve  round  trees  at  the  bottom  of 
miniature  hills,  or  set  our  backs  for  a  few 
seconds'  strain  uphill,  at  every  few  yards  of  the 
way.  Sand  makes  the  way  impassable  for  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  now  and  again,  and  we  get 
oft,  the  perspiration  pouring  from  under  our 
sun-helmets,  to  push  our  bicycles  through  the 
yielding  stuff  with  a  fellow-feeling  for  Pharaoh 
Merenptah,  and  an  unreasoning  hatred  of  the 
sandwich-boxes.  Then  we  mount  again.  But 
here  sharp  coral  crops  up,  and  one  of  us  is  not 
quick  enough  to  avoid  a  spill.     While  we  brush 


COCOA-NUTS  AND  CLOVES  51 

down,  the  temperature  becomes  too  great,  and 
we  wheel  towards  the  shade  of  a  mango  for  five 
minutes  with  an  orange  and  ten  more  with  a  pipe. 
It  is  extraordinarily  beautiful  in  the  shade. 
The  country  is  undulating,  and  you  can  see 
quite  far  under  the  trees  until  the  green  of 
clove  and  palm  blend  into  one  and  hem  you  in. 
The  hot  air  is  cooled  by  a  sea  breeze  even  here, 
and  the  low  hum  of  insect  life  comes  drowsily 
on  the  wind.  The  whole  world  is  alive  with 
life  of  one  sort  or  another,  from  that  outpost  of 
maji  moto  ants  with  their  wise  antennae  and 
long  yellow  bodies  busy  prospecting  on  a  fallen 
cocoa-nut  branch,  to  one  of  the  strangest  of 
God's  creatures,  the  million-legged,  six-  or  eight- 
inch  long  jongoo,  whose  fat,  black,  slow-moving 
body,  harmless  as  he  is,  is  inexpressibly  repug- 
nant. A  few  yards  away  is  a  native  home- 
stead, a  prosperous  one  seemingly,  for  its 
thatched  fence  extends  far  under  the  banana 
leaves,  a  small  army  of  fowls  and  goats  are 
wandering  around,  and  two  or  three  women 
are  in  sight  grinding  corn  and  drying  muhogo. 
The  sun,  falling  aslant  through  the  trees,  makes 
vivid  contrasts  of  light  and  shade  ;  and  there 
is  that  familiar  fragrant  scent  of  rich  earth  and 
springing  plants  which  recalls  instantly  holidays 


52  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

in  other  lands.  Scent  is  more  potent  than  sight 
or  sound  to  recall  the  past.  As  I  lie,  I  have 
but  to  close  my  eyes  to  be  again  on  the  banks 
of  the  Granta  on  a  hot  June  afternoon,  or  to 
hear  the  Tay  purling  over  the  stones  in  the 
woods  above  Dunkeld.  The  patter  of  a  mule's 
hoofs  spoils  the  dream,  for  that  Arab,  rich  in  his 
magnificent  gold-laced  coat,  white  turban,  and 
silver-handled  dagger,  cannot  be  part  of  any 
Western  dream.     But  we  must  follow  him. 

The  path  winds  on,  now  in  a  valley  among 
the  lush  grasses  and  high  reeds  of  a  streamlet 
that  broadens  here  into  a  washing-place  with 
three  brown  imps  busy  in  it,  and  now  up  a 
stony  way  whose  coral  points  tell  of  the  sea. 
In  a  few  moments  we  sight  it  through  the 
thinning  tree-trunks,  and  are  out  now  by  the 
Government  bungalow  in  a  perfect  paradise. 
We  climb  to  the  high  baraza  while  the  boys  pick 
dafu  for  us  and  unpack  our  sandwiches,  and 
there,  a-sprawl  in  easy  chairs,  gaze  our  fill.  To 
the  north  the  coast  bears  round  in  a  series  of 
tiny  bays  until  the  farthest  is  crowned  by  a 
lighthouse.  They  are  one  vivid  colour  in  the 
sun.  The  green  of  the  banks  crowds  down  to 
the  very  edge  of  jagged,  dark,  low  cliffs,  which 
give,  in  a  hundred  glittering  points,  on  to  the 


COCOA-NUTS  AND  CLOVES  58 

pure  white  of  the  coral  sand.  Then  comes  the 
sea,  first  the  edge  of  foam,  then  a  blue  so  clear 
and  translucent  that  the  rude  brown  timbers 
of  that  white-sailed  dhow  show  plainly  to  the 
very  keel.  Each  bay  seems  to  have  its  little 
islet,  itself  a  miniature  of  the  whole.  In  one 
a  group  of  nearly  naked  figures  are  clearly  out- 
lined as  they  work  at  their  nets,  and  from  a 
boat  putting  in  to  them  from  the  sea  comes  the 
rich  deep  boom  of  the  conch  shell  which  every 
fisherman  uses. 

Our  first  business  is  with  a  boy  here  who  is  a 
Christian  and  in  charge  of  the  house.  He  can 
rarely  get  to  his  duties,  and  my  companion  is 
busy  with  him.  It  seems  a  long  way  to  come 
for  one  sheep,  but  not  longer  than  the  shepherd 
of  the  parable  went  over  the  mountains  to 
search  for  his  hundredth,  and  it  is  part  of  a 
missionary's  business  to  acquire  that  divine  in- 
difference to  numbers  that  the  New  Testament 
teaches  us.  As  I  wait,  however,  my  cup  of 
happiness  brims  over  :  the  monthly  German 
mail  from  Europe  rounds  the  point !  We 
thought  we  might  see  her ;  but  now  we  know 
that  the  end  of  this  day,  when  one  is  weary  and 
the  sunlight  gone,  will  be  with  friends. 

Yohanna  dealt  with,  I  am  impatient  to  make 


54  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

trial  of  the  sands,  and  it  is  our  plan  to  walk  to 
the  lighthouse  along  them,  and  then  return 
through  the  shambas  to  the  house  for  a  cup  of 
coffee  before  our  ride  home.  Two  dogs  here 
are  obviously  friends  of  Wazungu,^  and  they 
come  out  to  accompany  us.  We  descend  by  a 
steep,  deadly-sharp,  rocky  path,  and  grind  our 
heels  on  the  shore  in  a  minute.  Here  it  is  all 
coral,  broken  pieces  of  every  shape  and  kind 
littering  the  ground  like  stones  on  the  beach  at 
Brighton  ;  and  we  pick  our  way  over  them  till 
the  sand  crops  out,  itself  just  coral  dust  with 
here  and  there  a  shell  or  two  of  often  exquisite 
colouring.  Maybe  we  took  two  hours  to  make 
that  lighthouse,  but  they  were  two  wonderful 
hours.  The  years  slip  away  easily  still,  and 
you  become  simply  the  Robinson  Crusoe  of 
your  boyhood's  play,  only  on  a  veritable 
tropical  island  now.  At  every  turn  there  is 
something  new.  We  explore  dark  caves  that 
wind  up  probably  into  the  forest,  because  there 
is  much  singing  of  crickets  in  them.  We  bathe 
for  a  few  seconds  in  one  place  where  a  shelf 
of  flat  rock  under  an  overhanging  creeper- 
covered  ridge  makes  an  ideal  bath-room— but 
even  this  delicious,  almost  lukewarm  water  may 

^  Europeani. 


COCOA-NUTS  AND  CLOVES  55 

not  be  enjoyed  long  for  fear  of  the  sun  on  one's 
spine,  and  we  wear  our  sun-helmets  all  the 
time.  Then  on,  clinging  occasionally  to  jagged 
coral  points  to  round  a  bend,  or  crossing  swiftly 
a  bare  stretch  of  sand  from  shade  to  shade.  In 
one  place  we  lighted  on  a  perfect  natural 
aquarium,  perhaps  six  feet  long,  three  feet 
broad,  and  four  or  five  feet  deep,  its  bottom 
ablaze  with  strange  weeds  and  corals,  above 
which  swam  ceaselessly  some  fifty  fish,  barred 
with  rainbow  hues,  wee  and  wonderful.  Peer- 
ing in,  the  queerest  creatures  present  themselves, 
and  we  see  that  the  beautiful  floor  of  the  pool 
is  really  spread  with  death.  A  species  of  star- 
fish (as  I  suppose)  is  busy  there.  He  has  five 
long,  brittle,  many-tentacled  arms,  and  a 
mouth  hidden  in  the  centre  of  a  body  no  bigger 
than  a  threepenny  piece.  With  one  arm  he 
clutches  tightly  the  innermost  point  of  a  hole 
in  the  rock,  and  with  the  other  four  in  constant 
motion,  he  waits  for  his  prey.  The  rocks  are 
black  with  these,  and  at  first  sight  you  fancy 
they  are  a  kind  of  water-weed.  Probably  the 
small  fish  and  remote  marine  creatures  are  no 
wiser— to  their  death.  But  one  could  peer  into 
that  pool  all  day. 

We  are  a  little  tired,  however,  as  we  climb  to 


56  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

the  lighthouse  to  visit  another  Christian,  the 
terribly  isolated  white  man  in  charge.  Then 
we  plunge  into  a  maze  of  little  paths  which 
thread  everywhere  the  small  patches  of  culti- 
vated land  and  the  great  stretches  of  well- 
wooded  country.  Here,  a  few  hundred  yards 
from  the  coast,  we  are  in  a  succession  of  villages 
each  practically  invisible  from  its  next  neigh- 
bour, so  thick  are  the  trees.  In  the  afternoon 
sun  it  is  very  peaceful.  An  old  woman,  return- 
ing with  her  water-pot,  directs  us  to  the  main 
ox-path,  and  we  skirt  native  houses  at  every 
turn.  There  is  a  suggestion  of  the  peace  of  an 
English  village  about  everything,  not  disturbed 
even  when  a  couple  of  dogs  run  out  to  greet  our 
own,  nor  when  a  domestic  trouble  obtrudes 
itself  in  the  shape  of  a  naked  black  toddler  who 
emerges  from  the  trees  crying  for  her  mother, 
precisely  as  she  would  do  if  she  were  white  ! 
But  it  is  a  sad  walk  even  so.  Now  and  again 
we  come  to  a  clean,  often  new,  hut  which  is  sus- 
piciously silent.  We  peer  round  ;  Mecca- wards 
is  the  inevitable  niche  which  tells  that  the 
Crescent  has  won  here  before  the  tarrying 
Cross  has  taken  the  field.  In  many  cases,  but 
a  few  years  ago,  there  would  have  been  no  such 
mosque.     But  the  Indian  shopkeeper  has  come, 


COCOA-NUTS  AND  CLOVES  57 

now  that  the  Government  launch  runs  here  once 
a  week  and  the  Government  road  has  pierced 
the  shamhas  so  far,  and  wherever  he  comes  the 
mosque  goes  up  and  the  converts  come  in.  It 
is  a  rehgion  at  once  easy,  Eastern,  respectable, 
and  patriotic,  and  in  practice  there  are  no  dis- 
abilities. A  wide  and  broad  highway  is  spread 
before  the  sheep  ;  small  wonder  that  they  tread 
it.  We  come  to  make  known  a  straight  and 
narrow  way ;   small  wonder  that  they  miss  it. 

But  our  task  is  made  harder  yet.  We  are 
not  left  long  to  puzzle  out  this  problem  of  the 
identification  of  a  Christian  Government  with  a 
Mohammedan  Sultanate,  by  which,  whereas  the 
shopkeeper  puts  up  his  mosque,  the  Govern- 
ment erects  its  bungalow  and  builds  its 
roads  without  a  thought  for  religion ;  for  we 
are  offered  another  conundrum  in  a  minute.  At 
the  shop  (under  a  glaring  advertisement  of 
well-known  cigarettes  and  equally  well-known 
soap  !)  sit  a  crowd  of  natives,  boys  and  men. 
We  go  up  to  buy  a  handful  of  bananas  at  the 
rate  of  sixteen  for  a  penny,  and  stop  a  while  to 
talk  to  them.  Then  we  hear  that  there  is  a 
Government  school  in  the  place  after  all,  though 
we  had  been  told  that  it  was  closed,  and  a  brief 
inspection  sends  us  out  well  knowing  that  our 


58  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

errand  has  been  useless.  We  cannot  build  a 
school  to  compete  with  this,  whose  cement 
floor,  English  desks,  black-board,  maps,  and 
books  are  the  pride  of  the  native  schoolmaster 
and  the  outcome  of  a  seemingly  inexhaustible 
Government  purse.  Even  if  we  could,  it  would  be 
bad  policy  to  put  one  of  our  all  too  few  teachers 
down  here  when  there  are  fifty  villages  around 
without  a  school  at  all ;  and  yet  it  would  have 
been  an  ideal  centre.  Well,  the  serkali  ^  is  in 
first,  and  we  must  leave  it.  It  is  our  English 
serkali,  in  fact,  officered  by  English  officials 
and  ruled  by  the  Foreign  Office  ;  but  the  be- 
wildering theory  of  modern  policies  makes  it 
nominally  the  serkali  of  the  Sultan.  And  so 
here  the  Koran  is  daily  taught ;  and  the  coming 
of  Christian  England  means,  for  this  village, 
roads,  a  lighthouse,  and  the  better  teaching  of 
Islam.  Our  British  Christianity  prescribes  to 
Christ  His  limits.  He  may  be  King  in  the 
churches,  but  not  in  parliament  houses. 

After  I  had  set  my  pen  to  that  last  para- 
graph, I  went  out  into  the  night  to  think  of  it 
all.  Standing  on  the  edge  of  our  flat  roof,  the 
creek,  dry  and  empty  now  for  all  its  yards  of 
sand  and   mud,  and  the  huts  beyond  backed 

1  Government. 


COCOA-NUTS  AND  CLOVES  59 

by  cocoa-nut  palms,  lie  bathed  in  a  flood  of  soft 
white  moonlight.  It  is  all  incredibly  wonder- 
ful. The  air  is  full  of  sound,  but  sound  as  it 
were  detached  and  remote — the  hoarse  guttural 
cries  of  the  squirrel-like  kombas  in  the  distant 
palms;  the  thin,  incessant  shrilling  of  the  cicalas; 
now  and  again  the  sharp  barking  of  pariah 
dogs  from  some  tortuous  lane  behind  me ;  occa- 
sionally the  coarse  laughter  of  a  woman,  or  loud 
men's  voices  that  strike  harshly  on  the  ear;  and 
at  steady  intervals  the  monotonous,  dully- 
savage,  and  half-frenzied  chant  of  Islam's 
stagnant  creed  from  packed  mosques  hidden 
in  the  huddle  of  huts  over  there.  It  is  God's 
world  for  all  this.  I  wonder  if  there  is  any- 
thing more  beautiful  to  be  seen  than  the  white 
glistening  of  the  moon  on  the  rustling  cocoa-nut 
palm  fronds  of  the  garden,  or  its  sheen  on  that 
banked  cumulus  cloud  which  hangs  over  this 
picturesque  half-Eastern,  half- African  city.  .  .  . 
There  !  The  clock  in  our  thin  spire  has  rung 
out  a  late  hour,  and  I  must  close.  These 
swiftly  passing  days  here  would  be  sad  in  their 
helplessness  were  it  not  for  a  thought  that 
dominates  them  all.  There  is  no  time  with 
God.  He  who  died  for  this  wonderful  world 
lives  for  it,  too  ;    to-morrow  I  shall  plead  the 


60  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

everlasting  sacrifice  of  the  one  and  drink  of  the 
wells  of  strength  whose  source  is  in  the  other ; 
and  we  shall  be  one  day  nearer  that  certain 
hour  when  the  Lord  who  sits  above  the  water- 
floods  shall  stir  up  His  strength  and  come 
among  us. 


VII 

THE   FRENCH   MISSION 

When  Innocent  Sebastian  James  Miguel  de 
Lord — which  is  not  his  name,  but  the  kind  of 
thing — was  admitted  to  the  company  of  men 
christened,  his  parents  were  '  At  Home  '  that 
Sunday  morning,  and  I  was  of  the  elect  invited. 
Miguel  had  the  distinction  of  being  a  first-born 
as  well  as  a  son,  and  his  mother  was  indubitably 
pleased  that  a  man  was  born  into  the  world. 
She  is  a  slight,  rather  dark,  pretty  girl,  with  a 
taste  in  her  dresses  all  to  her  credit.  This 
morning  she  looked  well,  and  entirely  happy, 
and  her  little  gold  earrings  rang  as  she  welcomed 
each  guest. 

The  house  was  a  tall  narrow  one  in  a  main 
street,  and  we  climbed  up  a  steep  stair  decorated 
with  cocoa-nut  palm  branches,  to  a  wide  hall 
on  the  first  floor  from  which  opened  several 
small  rooms.  The  hall  was  full  of  as  strange  an 
assortment  of  guests  as  can  well  be  imagined, 
from  a  be-turbaned  Arab  in  a  gorgeous  joho 

61 


62  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

and  a  sash  full  of  daggers,  to  our  latest  Indian 
arrival,  a  very  dark  gentleman  married  to  an 
Eurasian,  who  is  immaculately  Western  in  his 
dress  and  by  profession  a  veterinary  surgeon, 
with  a  knife  that  is  unwilling  to  stop  short  at 
horse-flesh.  Our  lives  hang  on  him,  incident- 
ally, because  he  inspects  meat  in  the  bazaars. 
When  not  otherwise  engaged  he  attends  my 
ministrations,  and,  by  way  of  distinction, 
claims  to  be  '  High  Church '  in  tendency, 
though  profoundly  evangelical  in  his  upbring- 
ing. He  is  perhaps  a  shade  forgetful  that 
charity  vaunteth  not  herself. 

Our  host,  a  rising  Goan,  dived  through  the 
press  and  impelled  us  toward  that  room  which 
contained  other  guests  of  honour.  It  was  a 
small  room,  and  it  was  quite  full,  after  the 
suburban  fashion  of  a  '  pleasant  evening  '  in 
Ealing  or  Hammersmith.  The  chairs  defied 
defeat  in  an  unbroken  rank  round  the  walls, 
and  one  steered  to  a  vacant  one  through  a 
small  army  of  little  tables  looking  forlorn  in 
the  middle.  I  had  one  frantic  handshake  with 
Miguel's  mother,  and  then  settled  down  breath- 
lessly to  the  refusal  of  all  sustenance  save  the 
conventional  glass  of  champagne.  A  succes- 
sion of  kindly  simple  people  bore  sandwiches 


THE  FRENCH  MISSION  68 

dyed  a  rich  yellow  with  mustard,  intoxicants 
of  every  nationality,  sherbet  in  iced  tumblers, 
cigars  offering  immediate  martyrdom,  and 
cigarettes  upon  which  one  fell  in  prospect  of  a 
release  from  saying  No  ! 

My  champagne  waved  in  the  direction  of 
Miguel  and  my  cigarette  honestly  going,  I  had 
leisure  to  look  round,  and  was  immediately 
lost  in  philosophic  speculation.  What  wretch 
can  have  introduced  into  the  island  (where 
every  prospect  pleases)  the  decorative  schemes 
of  the  English  lower  middle-class  (where  every 
art  is  vile) ;  or  is  it  only  that  there  is  something 
akin  between  the  spirit  of  old  Portugal  in 
Indian  blood,  and  the  spirit  of  the  hybrid 
Britisher  who  is  striving  to  attain  to  the  cir- 
cumstance of  the  nobility  ?  At  least  a  series 
of  little  mirrors,  in  plush  frames  with  painted 
birds  upon  them,  wandered  round  the  walls 
between  rickety  gilt  brackets  and  enlargements 
of  family  portraits.  A  useless  piece  of  furni- 
ture which  was  neither  honest  sideboard  nor 
practical  cupboard,  hung  out  festoons  of  laced- 
dooley  in  one  corner,  utterly  unable  to  support 
the  dignity  of  a  really  beautiful  piece  of  carved 
Indian  ivory.  The  individuals  on  the  chairs 
hid  the  rest,  and  a  strangely  pathetic  array 


64  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

they  made.  There  was  every  Indian  who 
aspires  to  be  a  Goan,  and  every  Goan  who  aspires 
to  be  an  EngUshman,  and  a  few  Eurasians  who 
aspire  not  to  aspire  at  all  on  account  of  their 
unquestionable  heritage.  Two  silent  sallow 
little  girls  in  pink,  with  brown  boots  and  white 
stockings  and  short  skirts  that  exhibited  much 
lace  at  the  knee,  sipped  iced  sherbet  opposite 
to  me,  and  a  really  delightful  Indian  beside 
them  could  hardly  move  for  the  starch  in  his 
collar.  Then  I  heard  a  voice  cry  my  name, 
and  saw  that  three  priests  had  entered  the 
room.  We  eddied  together  into  a  corner 
between  two  windows,  whereby  I  lived  to 
write  the  tale. 

Now  it  is  because  these  three  priests  im- 
pressed me  so  much — not  so  much  by  their 
individuality  as  by  their  type— that  I  can  say 
the  horrid  things  about  them  that  are  neces- 
sary. Yet  one  did  but  behold  three  black- 
cassocked  men  in  silk  to  honour  Innocent 
Sebastian,  with  beards  suggestive  of  having 
been  denied  for  some  time  the  luxury  of  trim- 
ming, and  with  that  indescribable  something 
about  them  common  to  certain  classes  in  the 
Latin  countries.  One  was  ruddy  and  lively 
in  a  pleasantly  simple  way,  and  it  was  he  who 


THE  FRENCH  MISSION  65 

told  me  of  his  visit  to  Alsace  three  years  ago 
now,  to  see  little  nephews  and  nieces  whom 
he  had  not  beheld  before  and  did  not  expect 
to  see  again.  He,  too,  spoke  of  a  brother  who 
had  shared  his  seminary  life  and  was  now  a 
voluntary  recruit,  for  missionary  purposes,  to 
the  lowest  Indian  caste,  so  that  he  could  no 
longer  walk  on  the  pavement  with  his  blood- 
relation  nor  share  so  much  as  a  glass  of  water 
with  him.  Not  that  this  mattered  so  much 
after  all,  for  they  would  never,  in  all  probability, 
meet  again.  His  superior  was  of  a  different 
caste,  a  rather  higher  type  of  South  German, 
I  imagine.  He  served  once  on  the  West 
African  coast,  but  was  recalled  for  Canadian 
service.  One  morning  his  Father-Rector  got  a 
letter  from  the  Bishop-General  of  the  Order  in 
Paris,  and  Father  Franz  caught  the  next  mail 
for  tropical  East  Africa.  He  has  been  out  six 
years  without  a  furlough,  and,  as  he  is  still  fit, 
sees  no  reason  to  expect  a  return  unless  he  is 
wired  for  to-morrow  for  Kamchatka  or  Tim- 
buctoo.  From  him  I  learned  that  an  old 
pere  who  has  been  fifty  years  here  had  the  joy 
of  saying  mass  that  morning,  but  '  he  hopes  to 
die  soon.'  From  him,  too,  came  a  genuine  com- 
pliment on  our  Bishop,  his  friendly  courtesy. 


66  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

theological  learning,  and  '  broad-mindedness  ' 
—a  compliment  the  more  brave  as  there  is  an 
undoubted  superiority  in  certain  directions  on 
our  side.  And  then  I  was  introduced  to  the 
Goan  father. 

From  him  I  learned  that  between  them  they 
speak  six  languages,  and  conduct  their  work 
in  four,  although  English  is  the  language  of 
their  common-room.  It  was  he,  too,  who 
sketched  their  manner  of  government,  the 
Bishop  of  the  Vicariate  being  supreme  on  the 
spot,  though  subject  to  the  direction  of  the 
Bishop-General  in  Paris  on  some  matters,  and 
preserved  from  controversy  by  a  common  rela- 
tion to  Propaganda.  I  learned  also  of  the 
homes  that  awaited  them  when  Africa  tells  in 
the  long  run— that  is  if  they  do  not  drop  at 
their  post.  It  depends,  it  appears,  upon  one's 
province ;  but  for  all  there  is  a  sheltering 
mother-house  in  the  end,  either  in  America  or 
France  or  Germany  or  England,  which  will  offer 
you  as  bare  a  little  room  as  that  you  occupy 
now  in  the  Catholic  Mission,  with  as  tawdry 
a  reception-room  for  state  occasions,  and  as 
gravely  meagre  a  table.  These  things  also  I 
learned  by  inference  and  questioning,  and  there 
was  no  proud  boasting. 


THE  FRENCH  MISSION  67 

Father  Franz  lent  me  his  umbrella,  and  I 
came  out  into  the  rain.  Of  course,  there  is  a 
great  deal  to  be  said  against  them.  It  is  the 
peasant  stupidity  of  faith,  the  seminary  train- 
ing, the  machinery  that  broke  Tyrrell's  heart 
and  made  Newman  hold  his  pen  and  grit  his 
teeth,  that  makes  it  possible.  Nor  may  the 
results  be  always  good,  because  there  is  little 
genius  about  this  work  and  you  have  to  dig 
for  enthusiasm.  But  these  men  have  sur- 
rendered utterly  to  the  will  of  God,  and  I  am 
abased  before  the  dignity  of  it. 


VIII 

AFTER   HIS   LIKENESS 

Last  Sunday  a  disorderly  little  crowd  hurried 
through  the  side  streets  behind  the  Mission  in  a 
rude  procession  to  the  burning  ghaut — such  as 
it  is — a  couple  of  miles  away  by  the  sea.  The 
still  hot  sunlight  of  the  afternoon  fell  garishly 
on  the  uneven,  unkempt  houses,  and  where  I 
saw  them  there  chanced  to  be  no  green  of  tree 
or  bush,  or  scarlet  of  a  woman's  dress.  The 
thirty  odd  people  were  all  men,  middle-aged 
or  old  for  the  most  part ;  and  although  all  were 
dressed  alike  in  that  peculiar  low-draping  waist- 
cloth  of  the  Hindi,  several  stood  out  for  notice 
as  the  crowd  passed.  A  tall,  thin-faced  man 
bore  the  body  in  his  arms,  though  two  others 
helped  him  from  time  to  time — the  body  of  an  old 
man,  I  think,  draped  closely  in  a  crimson  cover- 
ing rather  faded  and  torn,  lying  on  a  rough 
stretcher  of  untrimmed  wood.  In  the  closer 
press  behind  a  short  stout  elderly  person,  naked 
to  the  waist,  with  hair  thin  but  rather  greasily 


AFTER  HIS  LIKENESS  69 

plastered  back  on  his  head,  offended  somehow 
by  the  yellow  whiteness  of  his  body.  Behind 
him  again  a  group  of  chattering  people  bore 
strange  burdens :  one  an  armful  of  dry  sticks 
and  straw  and  leaves,  another  a  lighted  lantern, 
another  a  can  of  oil,  another  an  axe  and  a 
bundle  of  faggots.  Their  companions  seemed 
much  alike,  with  loose  well-worn  Indian  leather 
shoes,  scanty  cotton  cloths,  faded  black  caps, 
and  a  general  air  of  poor  workmen  who  could 
ill  afford  time  even  for  a  burying.  There  were 
no  prayers  at  all,  but  as  yet  there  was  no  mock- 
ing or  jesting  either,  only  that  disorder  which, 
nevertheless,  had  a  vague  sense  of  business 
about  it,  and  that  restless  hurry  down  the 
stifling  street. 

It  chanced  that  they  were  passing  an  ill 
place  when  I  met  them.  A  drunken  Swahili 
woman  not  yet  old  but  coarse  and  brutish 
beyond  telling — one  of  the  dead  wrack  of 
humanity  that  every  city  tosses  out  to  God  to 
remind  Him  of  the  justice  of  the  curse — bawled 
and  danced  obscenely  in  their  path.  A  leader 
of  the  Indians  pushed  her  to  one  side,  and  she 
fell  back,  her  one  scant  shiti  slipping  from  her, 
among  a  group  of  her  companions,  who  received 
her  with  jeers  and  curses.     But  the  proces- 


70  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

sionists  did  not  so  much  as  spare  a  glance.  They 
pushed  resolutely  by,  urged  neither  by  dignity 
nor  by  sorrow  nor  by  prayer,  but  by  their  haste. 
It  is  hard  to  convey  the  impression  of  that 
passing,  but  it  was  as  if  these  were  men  without 
faith,  and  therefore  without  fear  or  love,  and 
yet  men  who  faced  the  grim  issues  purposefully. 
•  •  •  •  •  • 

Some  hours  later  the  day  died  in  a  silent 
waning  of  the  light,  while  the  young  moon  and 
the  intense  stars  stole  out  as  silently.  South- 
ward of  the  road  which  passes  between  the 
more  Indian  half  of  the  town  and  the  creek 
with  its  African  village  beyond,  a  thin  crescent 
of  living  silver  hung  high  over  a  silver-blue  in- 
finity which  deepened  to  dark  sombre  shades 
that  hid  the  outline  of  the  town.  A  few  trees, 
as  still  as  the  empyrean  which  outlined  them, 
broke  the  black  sky-line  here  and  there.  And 
every  second,  too  swift  to  miss  and  yet  too 
slow  to  watch,  the  light  of  the  passing  day 
stole  away. 

Above  the  huts  of  Africa  and  the  high  palms, 
rode,  at  first  in  lonely  glory,  one  star.  Even 
when  the  great  hosts  had  stolen  out  beside  her, 
she  alone  cast  an  arrow  of  pure  light  across  the 
dark  water,  which,  at  its  head,  leaped  out  and 


AFTER  HIS  LIKENESS  71 

back,  or  broke  into  living  fire,  with  the  slow 
swell  of  the  tide.  There  died  soon,  too,  the 
outline  of  the  huts  and  trees  beyond.  Then  a 
sudden  lamp,  set  in  a  windowed  hut,  painted 
the  water  by  the  side  of  heaven's  silver  with 
the  coarse  glow  of  earthly  gold.  The  one 
seemed  to  lead  by  a  narrow  pathway  to  the 
dim  mysteries  of  God  ;  the  other,  by  a  broader 
way,  to  the  strange  medley  of  known  and 
unknown  in  the  heart  of  man.  Sounds,  too, 
emphasised  the  distinction.  From  far  away 
came  screamingly  now  and  again  the  noise  of 
a  car  returning  from  a  visit,  this  dull  Sunday, 
to  some  distant  plantation ;  and  one's  percep- 
tion knew  instantly  what  bundle  of  sensa- 
tions it  carried :  the  faint  scent  of  a  woman's 
clothes,  the  fragrance  of  a  cigar,  the  throb  of 
sullen  machinery,  and  the  savour  of  such  talk 
as  one  must  give  at  such  a  time.  But  from  the 
pageant  of  the  birth  of  a  night  came  no  sound, 
save  only  the  sighing  of  the  lips  of  the  water  for 
the  wide  bosom  of  the  sea.  Far  out  and  up 
indeed  the  morning  stars  sang  together  as  they 
set  out  upon  their  ordered  march  which  guards 
the  halls  of  God,  but  their  song  had  echoes  only 
in  the  heart. 


72  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

And  so,  as  I  passed  slowly  by,  too  sure  to 
wonder  any  more  and  too  content  to  fear,  I 
linked  the  two  scenes  of  the  day  together  with 
those  enactments  which  I  had  not  seen  but 
knew.  There  had  been  the  hasty  piling  of  the 
still  body  with  fuel  soaked  in  oil,  away  out 
there  on  the  hard  beach  which  sweltered  in  the 
heat  of  the  sun.  The  flames  had  leaped  and 
crackled  hideously  under  the  pent-house  of 
iron  roofing  that  was  all  these  exiles  could  offer 
the  dead  in  place  of  the  stately  ghauts  of  the 
Ganges,  and  the  fire  had  sobbed  itself  out  as 
the  sun  went  down.  Then  the  poor  grey  ashes 
had  been  scattered,  and  the  hurrying  mourners, 
a  few  hundred  yards  up  the  beach,  had  removed 
every  trace  of  pitiful  defilement.  They  had 
come  home  along  the  shore  as  quickly  as  they 
went  (I  have  seen  them  many  times) ;  and  as 
like  as  not  were  even  now  squatting  in  the  close 
foul  atmosphere  of  cellar  or  shop,  hammering, 
stitching,  or  beating  iron,  as  their  trade  might 
be.  Upon  the  beach  they  had  left,  the  new 
young  crescent  of  the  moon  shone  purely  down 
from  her  height  and  transformed  even  the 
charred  remains  of  the  fire.  A  tired  earth  lay 
still,  at  peace.  A  weary  sea  sank  back  almost 
soundlessly  to  the  great  depths  from  which  it 


AFTER  HIS  LIKENESS  73 

must  leap  restlessly  with  every  tide,  but  as  it 
sank  it  carried  sad  dust — at  last,  too,  at  peace. 
And  somehow,  somewhither,  from  the  toil  and 
fret  and  clamour,  and  from  the  horror  of  that 
street,  a  soul  had  torn  its  way  into  the  calm 
serene  mystery  that  enshrouds  its  God.  Ah, 
if  this  be  His  likeness,  how  shall  I  be  satisfied  ! 


IX 

THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  THORNS 

If  you  resolutely  turn  your  back  upon  the  city 
and  follow  a  highly  dignified  road  (first  with 
the  native  town  on  the  left  and  the  grounds  of 
the  Sports  Club  on  your  right),  and  if  you  then 
take  a  sharp  turn  by  an  askari  box  across  a 
sandy  spit  of  land  fringed  with  '  rain  trees,' 
which  clumsy  scuttling  land-crabs  love  by  day 
and  fireflies  by  night,  until  your  path  (having 
now  lost  the  greater  part  of  its  claim  to  respect- 
ability) rises  rapidly  to  a  big  square  house  fifty 
yards  from  the  sea,  in  a  grove  of  palm  trees 
and  a  plantation  of  rich  flowering  shrubs,  you 
will  arrive  at  Kiungani.  The  walls  are  very 
thick,  of  coral  stone  and  whitewash  within 
and  without ;  the  floors  are  all  cement  and 
very  uneven ;  and  my  room  is  small  but  lofty, 
like  the  rest  all  stone  and  whitewash,  and  with 
two  windows  looking  due  west  over  thirty 
miles  of  strait  to  where  the  hills  of  Africa 
proper  guard  the  heart  of  Livingstone  and  the 

74 


t  cc  c 


c  c  c  c 
c  '  c 


c  <  c  c 
t  t  c  c 


*^  t  t  C  ' 


THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  THORNS  75 

grave  of  Mackenzie,  somewhere  in  the  land  for 
which  they  died.  We  see  them  best  when  the 
sun  is  setting  in  a  clear  azure  sky. 

We  are  in  a  bay,  the  city  round  the  headland 
to  the  north.  We  see  her  lights  at  night,  and 
those  of  Mbweni,  a  Christian  village  and  the 
centre  of  the  working  of  the  Sisterhood,  round 
the  other  horn  on  the  south.  You  can  wander 
down  through  the  plantation  of  pine-apples, 
bananas,  cocoa-nuts,  mangoes,  papai,  and  other 
tropical  trees  and  fruits,  to  the  sandy  beach 
with  its  rippling  wonderfully  transparent  sea— 
for  we  get  few  storms  here — with  its  ever  green 
background  of  vegetation.  Paths  lead  away 
behind,  past  the  houses  of  our  native  teachers, 
the  football  ground,  and  some  native  huts,  to 
the  road  a  beneficent  Government  is  rapidly 
making,  and  on  which  there  goes  every  sort  of 
civilised  and  uncivilised  person  in  every  sort  of 
conveyance,  from  an  ox-wagon  and  a  rick- 
shaw to  a  landau  and  a  motor-car ;  then  they 
cross,  and  plunge  into  the  woods  which  stretch 
unbroken  all  over  the  island. 

The  College  itself  is  a  big  square-built  build- 
ing of  two  stories,  with  a  straight  front  pierced 
with  rather  small  windows.  Going  through  a 
doorway  in  the  centre,  one  finds  oneself  in  an 


76  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

entrance  hall,  with  a  library  to  the  right,  store- 
rooms to  the  left,  and  a  passage  straight  in 
front.  A  staircase  from  this  passage  leads  to 
the  European  rooms  on  the  first  floor,  with 
boys'  dormitories  above,  and  thence  to  the 
flat  cement  roof;  but,  beyond  the  passage, 
there  is  a  quadrangle,  cloistered,  and  crossed 
with  cloisters  in  addition.  Above  the  cross- 
cloisters  are  senior  students'  studies.  Going 
straight  forward  you  pass  through  the  opposite 
side  of  this  court,  comprising  vestries,  a  little 
medicine-room,  and  so  on,  to  another  larger 
court  with  the  school-room  on  the  right,  and 
various  class-rooms,  dormitories,  and  a  dining- 
hall  on  the  left.  The  north  side  of  the  first 
quadrangle  is  taken  up  by  the  Chapel,  the 
south  by  the  Refectory— a  long  airy  room.  It 
is  all  very  convenient,  spacious,  clean,  and  cool 
as  it  can  be — which  is  not  saying  much  !  And 
there  is  a  lovely  hibiscus  in  the  first  court 
which  makes  a  glorious  patch  of  crimson 
against  the  greenery  behind. 

The  Chapel  is  a  lofty  well-proportioned  rec- 
tangular building  in  a  rather  curious  half- Arab 
style  which  is  very  hard  to  describe.  Still,  its 
windows  from  within  are  rather  like  somewhat 
wide  lancets,  and  there  is  a  small  clerestory 


THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  THORNS  77 

above  ;  the  roof  is  flat,  and  the  whole  is  built 
of  loose  white  cement  material,  pleasantly 
rough  in  appearance,  and  cool.  Near  the  east 
end  three  steps  rise  to  a  chancel  divided  from 
the  Chapel  by  an  open  teak  screen  of  native 
workmanship,  with  five  arches,  very  simple 
and  plain,  and  then  three  more  rise  to  the  foot- 
pace of  the  altar.  This  is  in  white  and  dark 
brick-red  marble,  very  dignified,  and  backed 
by  a  dorsal  of  rich  blue  velvet.  I  found  myself, 
on  a  first  visit,  at  one  of  the  fald-stools  placed 
for  priests,  choir- wise,  within  the  chancel,  with 
the  cantors  at  their  lectern  just  in  front 
and  the  black  faces  of  the  boys  below.  There 
were  no  instruments,  but  plain-song  was  beauti- 
fully rendered  ;  no  seats,  but  the  place  of  the 
boys  marked  out  by  their  books  on  the  mat- 
covered  floor ;  and  ir5n  scroll-work  took  the 
place  of  glass  in  all  the  windows,  through  which 
are  borne  the  rich  scents  of  Africa  and  the  con- 
tinuous murmur  of  insect  life.  Just  outside 
my  window  were  the  crosses  of  the  little 
cemetery,  overhung  by  a  big  acacia  which  was 
just  then  a  blaze  of  scarlet,  and  walled  in  by 
sweet  frangipanni.  Each  cross  has  its  own 
story,  mostly  of  the  days  when  death  was  very 
busy  among  the  workers  here,  and  it  is  a  very 


78  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

sacred  spot.  Most  of  these  passed  through  no 
little  sorrow,  and  they  died  far  from  the  home- 
land that  is  extraordinarily  dear  to  us — or  at 
least  to  me — and  I  should  like  to  carve  big  on 
the  wall  above  them,   '  Qui   vicerit   faciam 

UT  IS  EST  COLUMNA  IN  TEMPLO  DeI  MEI.' 

And  while  I  thought  of  it  all  the  echo  of 
prayer  drew  to  a  close,  and  we  rose  for  a  hymn. 
How  potent  is  music  — the  mistress  of  our 
emotions  !  Although  the  words  were  in  Swahili 
the  tune  was  familiar  enough,  and  indeed  the 
meaning  not  obscure.  These  black  lads,  drawn, 
at  the  end  of  so  many  centuries,  from  some 
hundreds  of  miles  of  heathen  country,  were 
singing,  as  heartily  as  I  once  heard  it  sung  by 
an  undergraduate  congregation  completely  fill- 
ing Great  St.  Mary's : 

*  Jesus  shall  reign  where'er  the  sun 
Doth  his  successive  journeys  run.' 

Through  a  mist  I  looked  up  to  where,  as  it 
seemed  to  me,  the  figure  of  our  Lord  carved 
upon  His  Cross  leaned  forward  with  wide  arms 
to  take  us  in.  But  He  is  so  still  there.  The 
bowed  Head  and  tortured  Body  do  not  move. 
Of  course  they  cannot,  but  for  all  that  th^y  are 
a  parable.     He  waits. 

These  eighty  odd  lads  stand  for  so  much. 


THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  THORNS  79 

They  are  the  pick  of  the  mainland  schools,  but 
are  mostly  the  sons  of  heathen  parents,  drawn 
from  scattered  villages,  who  made  their  own 
stand  at  twelve  or  thirteen  years  when  they 
were  baptized,  and  who  come  here  any  time 
between  that  age  and  twenty.  In  the  long 
holiday  that  distance  makes  necessary,  many 
go  back  to  entirely  heathen  surroundings — 
surroundings  in  which  every  kind  of  pressure 
from  without  is  brought  upon  them  to  accept 
tribal  ceremonies,  and  with  them  anti-Christian 
practices.  For  the  most  part,  anything  which 
will  ruin  their  new  faith  is  welcome  to  their 
parents.  Imagine  how  inconceivably  remote 
from  our  standards  is  a  home  where  the  mother 
would  rejoice  at  the  loss  of  her  son's  virtue  ! 
Some,  indeed,  are  the  sons  of  Christians,  and 
during  my  stay  in  the  College  my  own  room 
boy  was  the  son  of  a  native  Church  Missionary 
Society  minister ;  but  for  the  many  there  are 
no  such  benefits.  If  they  find  the  Son  of  Man 
at  all,  they  must  find  Him  in  the  furnace  of  fire. 
And  many  do,  going  through  a  long  and  difficult 
course  until  they  take  a  certificate  as  teacher, 
and  then,  in  naturally  dwindling  numbers, 
proceed  through  long  years  of  discipline,  prac- 
tical work,  and   study,  from   reader  to   sub- 


80  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

deacon,  from  sub-deacon  to  deacon,  from 
deacon  to  priest.  The  standard  of  that  last 
is  extraordinarily  high.  Many  are  remark- 
ably keen  thinkers,  and  are  more  likely  to 
develop  a  new  African  heresy  than  to  corrupt 
the  Faith  through  ignorance.  Meanwhile  there 
is  a  reverence  and  eagerness  which  are  unmis- 
takable. 

The  school  has  but  two  compulsory  services, 
each  of  some  half-hour's  duration,  at  the  begin- 
ning and  end  of  the  day's  work.  At  the 
Eucharist  the  servers  and  other  ministers  wear 
red  cassocks,  and  squat,  when  not  at  work,  on 
the  altar  steps  against  the  wall,  bare-footed 
and  attentive,  and  very  much  at  home.  Non- 
compulsory  services  are  Matins  and  Sext,  and 
Compline  after  the  silence  bell  the  last  thing  at 
night.  There  seems  to  be  always  a  good  con- 
gregation for  that,  crouching  anywhere  in  the 
dark  church,  but  facing  towards  the  dim  side- 
chapel,  whose  sheltering  curtain  is  pulled  back 
for  the  office.  It  is  a  tiny  sanctuary  with  a 
holy  air  about  it.  It  is  here  that  I  make  my 
own  daily  Offering,  at  a  plain  altar  of  which 
the  reredos  is  of  native  carved  wood,  and  con- 
sists of  pillars  twined  with  thorns  which  make 
place  for  the  Tabernacle.     I  like  those  thorns, 


THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  THORNS  81 

and  especially  their  place.  Thorns  He  wore, 
and  thorns  He  wears,  and  His  disciples  must 
not  expect  to  be  crowned  without  them. 

In  the  case  of  some  of  the  boys,  at  least,  the 
crowning  is  visible  enough.  The  story  of  one 
such,  whom  I  shall  call  Cyril  since  that  name 
has  been  borne  by  one  who  did  as  he  before 
him,  seems  to  me  a  peculiarly  simple  and 
touching  tale.  Cyril  was  a  Mohammedan  who 
was  born  in  the  Comoro  Islands,  where  his 
father  is  wealthy  and  of  high  rank  in  the 
Sultanate,  but  he  came  as  a  young  man  to  this 
island,  and  began  to  attend  a  school  then  open 
in  the  native  town.  From  the  attraction  of 
secular  teaching  he  passed  to  the  acceptance 
of  religious ;  and  when  a  little  over  twenty,  he 
declared  himself  a  Christian,  and  asked  for 
baptism.  Well,  converts  from  Islam  are  rare 
here,  and  his  case  especially  made  some  stir. 
He  suffered  a  very  great  deal  of  persecution, 
but  finally  received  the  cross.  Not  long  after- 
wards the  Sultan  of  the  Comoro  Islands  visited 
His  Highness  Sayyid  Ali,  and  called  Cyril  before 
him.  When  he  got  to  the  palace,  however,  he 
found  a  big  gathering  of  Arabs  and  Moham- 
medan teachers  as  well  as  the  two  Sultans,  who 
in  their  presence  proceeded  to  question  and 


82  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

test  him.  The  dehghtful  thing  about  Cyril  is 
his  simpHcity,  and  he  was  quite  simple  on  this 
occasion.  He  said  that  they  were  very  clever 
and  that  he  was  very  ignorant,  especially  as 
he  had  then  been  only  two  years  a  Christian, 
and  that  there  were  some  things  that  he  could 
not  answer.  They  pressed  him  to  say  what 
had  persuaded  him  of  the  truth  of  Chris- 
tianity, and  his  answer  was  rather  interesting. 
He  said  that  even  the  Koran  acknowledged  our 
Lord  to  have  been  born  of  a  Virgin,  and  from 
this  he  had  come  to  believe  Him  divine.  Then 
the  Sultan  asked  him  if  he  would  go  back  to 
his  birthplace,  and  he  answered  as  bravely  as 
his  namesake  at  his  question,  '  Yes,  if  you 
order  me,  for  you  are  my  Sultan ;  but  in 
matters  of  my  soul,  I  have  another  King  now.' 
At  home  his  father  proved  unexpectedly 
tolerant ;  and  when  an  old  family  friend  came 
to  beg  him  to  return  to  the  mosque,  promising 
to  allow  his  reception  to  be  private  and  quiet, 
Cyril,  with  extreme  wisdom,  contented  himself 
with  thanking  the  old  man  for  his  trouble  and 
for  the  interest  that  he  took  in  his  welfare.  But 
he  did  not  go.  Instead,  he  used  to  get  up 
every  morning  when  his  people  went  to  the 
mosque  for  prayers,  and  spend  that  time  with 


THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  THORNS  83 

his  Bible.  He  is  married  now  and  back  in  the 
island,  daily  teaching  in  the  plantations  of  the 
things  he  has  found. 

There  are  moments,  in  the  crowded  Indian 
bazaar  or  outside  a  mosque  resonant  with  mis- 
directed prayer,  when  one  is  tempted  to  question 
the  good  of  Mission  work.  The  thought  chills 
the  heart  that  perhaps  the  West  has  controlled 
Christian  thought  for  so  long  that  we  have  lost 
the  key  to  the  Eastern  mind.  And  then  one 
remembers  the  Chapel  of  the  Thorns  ;  how 
short  a  time  we  have  been  at  work  ;  how  small 
a  band  even  a  Paul  left  behind  him  in  great 
heathen  cities  ;  and  how,  since  '  Magnificat ' 
proclaimed  the  fact,  it  has  been  His  plan  to  look 
upon  '  low  estate  '  and  to  do  with  such  '  great 
things.'  One  Cyril,  and  Missions  are  worth 
while.  There  are  not  in  Islam  wiser  than  there 
were  in  Athens,  nor  in  Africa  fiercer  than  Clovis 
or  Guthran ;  and  the  doom  is  on  them  and 
their  kings. 


X 

A   VILLAGE   STREET 

A  CHARMING  road  of  a  few  miles  takes  one  out 
to  the  village.  All  the  way  hedgeless  Africa 
riots  in  beauty  of  colour  and  scent  and  form,  here 
where  the  grey-green  casuarinas  tower  up  in  soft 
lights  to  meet  high  overhead,  there  where  the 
twisted  cocoa-nuts  rise  to  their  rich  coronas  above 
the  brake  of  banana  and  scrub.  A  huge  mango 
marks  the  turn  of  the  road.  Every  morning 
the  country  folks  set  down  their  burdens  against 
its  spreading  roots,  and  exchange  the  news  of 
the  day  in  the  bushy  shade.  You  can  see  the 
vivid  yellow  of  piled  plantains,  the  orange  and 
gold  of  mangoes  and  oranges,  and  the  scarlet 
of  a  hairy  kind  of  fruit  which  grows  in  clusters 
on  a  black  wood.  Beyond  the  mango  is  a  slight 
plain  where  coral  rock  outcrops,  and  African  furze 
and  a  species  of  bracken  luxuriate.  And  then 
there  is  the  sentry-box  and  red  flag,  with  living 
hut  behind,  of  the  askari  stationed  in  these 

84 


A  GOVERNMENT  ROAD 


A  VILLAGE  STREET  85 

parts,  and  we  swing  round,  nearly  at  a  right 
angle,  into  the  village  street. 

It  is  a  Christian  village  and  it  is  a  Western 
road,  but  it  is  Africa  for  all  that.  There  are 
no  pavements,  nor  curbs,  nor  gutters,  nor 
garden  gates,  nor  tamed  flowers  in  proper  beds, 
nor  street  lamps,  nor  shops,  and  the  only  traffic 
is  the  occasional  carriage  or  car  of  some  visitor 
to  the  Convent,  or  a  usually  belated  padre  mark- 
ing time  on  a  bicycle.  There  is  first,  however, 
the  village  well,  which  is  rather  more  fascinat- 
ing than  most  wells,  for  in  addition  to  its  cool 
mossy  depth  with  the  black  water  inviting  far 
below,  it  has  a  rough  stone-hewn  background 
to  carry  an  iron  bar,  across  which  runs  the 
primitive  fibre  rope  to  which  each  native  woman 
ties  her  own  calabash  or  bucket.  Besides,  a 
tall  cocoa-nut  palm  behind  shelters  a  colony  of 
chattering  yellow  birds  as  pretty  as  canaries 
and  as  cheerful  as  London  sparrows.  I  am 
glad  the  good  God  made  some  birds  only 
capable  of '  a  joyful  noise  ' ;  one  feels  less  lonely. 

Mama -John  lives  close  by,  for  you  always 
name  the  woman  after  her  child  (only  it  is  not 
John !).  He  is  the  nicest  black  imp  imaginable, 
with  a  muhoga^-distended  stomach,  which  only 

1  Cassava. 


86  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

adds  to  his  beauty  in  the  bath.  That  opera- 
tion usually  takes  place  in  the  street  as  one 
rides  back  from  the  service  in  the  early  morn- 
ing, for  an  African  does  most  things  outside  his 
hut.  If  you  ride  in  when  the  sun  has  sunk 
behind  the  sea  an  hour  or  so,  red  fires  leap  and 
crackle  outside  most  of  the  houses,  and  cooking 
scents  the  streets.  On  papa  ^  days  a  self- 
respecting  fried-fish  shop  at  home  would  put 
up  shutters  for  very  shame  at  so  ignominious 
a  beating. 

This  habit  of  living  out  of  doors  stamps  a 
character  on  every  hut.  The  house  itself  is 
merely  a  square  stick-and-mud  erection,  with 
a  widespreading  thatch  of  cocoa-nut  leaves, 
and  it  is  often  chimney  and  windowless.  Within 
there  is  a  division  into  cubicles,  as  we  might 
say,  and  that  farthest  from  the  low  door  is 
always  rather  more  than  dark.  But  outside 
a  mud  seat  runs  round  under  the  eaves,  and  in 
one  corner  will  be  the  hollowed  log  and  strong 
stick-pestle  for  pounding  grain.  A  clean-swept 
space  before  the  doorway  is  often  spread  with 
mats,  on  which  the  white,  pithy,  muhoga  roots 
dry  in  the  sun ;  and  there  is  the  blackened  spot 
on  which  the  fire  is  usually  built,  with  half  a 

1  Shark. 


A  VILLAGE  STREET  87 

dozen  native  stools  strewn  around.  A  kind  of 
miniature  hut,  with  roof  but  no  sides,  stands, 
generally,  a  few  yards  away,  and  here  the 
wandering  goats  of  the  owner's  banking  account 
are  tied  at  night.  A  banana  brake  sets  a  deli- 
cious greenish-yellow  patch  somewhere  near, 
graceful  always,  but  the  more  so,  perhaps,  when 
the  dark  red  flower  on  the  long  stalk  bends  out 
of  the  heart  of  the  coiled  fibrous  branches. 

Houses  such  as  these  keep  the  way  till  we 
reach  cross-roads.  To  the  left  a  dwindling 
track  runs  through  an  enchanted  country, 
sometimes  scarlet  with  lilies,  but  ever  green  as 
the  meads  of  God.  To  the  right,  after  the 
roofed  but  open  market  with  the  hard-beaten 
earth  floor,  is  a  line  of  houses  facing  the  church, 
in  which  the  elders  of  the  village  live.  Most 
of  these  knew  the  slave-chains  in  their  day,  and 
they  look  across  to  the  cross-set  churchyard, 
where  fragrant  white-blossomed  fleshy-stemmed 
frangipanni  drop  petals  and  leaves  each  year 
upon  slave-graves.  The  church  itself  lifts  a 
high  tower  over  the  crouching  hamlet  as  the 
churches  must  have  done  in  England  in  the 
days  of  Anselm  and  Becket.  Inside,  the  narrow 
unglazed  windows  admit  cooled  air  and  little 
light,  and  chattering  Java  sparrows  in  the  high 


88  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

clerestory  windows  tell  again  that  the  place  of 
the  altar  of  my  King  and  God  is  one  where  the 
sparrow  hath  found  her  a  house  and  the 
swallow  a  nest  where  she  may  lay  her  young. 
Now  and  again  a  big  whirring  beetle  or  a  deep- 
humming  mason-wasp  sails  through  the  still 
sanctuary  as  one  kneels,  and  seems  to  call  to 
the  stir  of  human  life  beyond.  For  even  in  a 
village  which  seems  on  most  days  asleep  be- 
neath a  blazing  sun,  there  is  no  heart  not  astir 
and  purposeful. 

If  we  leave  the  church  by  the  western  gate, 
and  take  that  path  to  the  village,  we  find 
activities  enough.  The  younger  men  set  out 
in  the  early  morning  for  Government  service  in 
town,  or  for  their  work  under  the  auspices  of 
the  Mission,  but  here  is  a  row  of  native  women, 
armed  with  the  rough  hoe  of  common  use,  hard 
at  the  dressing  of  a  patch  of  pine-apples.  Each 
stands  behind  her  neighbour  in  a  long  line 
aslant  the  clearing,  one  tight-wound  cloth 
gathered  to  the  knees,  the  other  worn  free  of 
the  arms  and  shoulders.  To  be  honest,  one 
must  confess  that  they  are  more  picturesque 
than  beautiful,  and  it  is  entirely  necessary  to 
rearrange  one's  cloth,  or  discuss  the  overseer, 
or  settle  who  disturbed  the  village  late  last 


A  VILLAGE  STREET  89 

night,  several  times  each  hour.  In  the  after- 
noon they  pick  up  wood  for  the  evening  fire,  or 
get  ready  house  and  cooking  pot  against  the 
return  of  the  master.    '    '^,  . 

The  path  joins  the  i!fa|^  street  not  far  from 
the  village  school  where  the  available  boys  are 
being  instructed,  not  without  a  good  supply  of 
noise,  in  the  usual  mysteries.  It  is  beyond  me 
how  anybody  learns  anything  when  the  woods- 
cry  through  the  open  door  each  second  of  th%^ 
day  and  the  cool  sea  is  but  a  few  hundred  yards 
away.  Our  way  lies  thither.  The  trees  do  not 
thin,  for  they  crowd  to  the  very  edge  of  the  low 
cliffs.  A  kapok  swings  its  cotton  pods  among 
bare  branches  by  a  gaunt  old  baobab  on  our 
left  as  we  go,  and  the  cocoa-nuts  cluster  again 
where  two  gate-posts  of  coral  stone  and  an 
ever-open  gate  are  all  that  our  commonwealth 
finds  necessary  by  way  of  an  entrance  or  enclo- 
sure to  the  sisters'  house  and  school  and  chapel 
just  beyond.  Through  the  gates,  indeed,  the 
road  ceases  in  a  wide  space  flanked  by  a  low 
thatched  building  on  the  right  (whose  open 
cross  above  the  door  reminds  that  this  was  the 
first  slave-church),  and  an  old  well  and  a  wee 
hospital  on  the  left.  Before,  in  the  centre,  is 
the  ancient  mango  whose  thick  leaves  hide  the 


90  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

bell  by  which  the  world  hereabouts  sets  its 
time.  There  will  be  girls,  as  likely  as  not, 
scattered  round,  and  you  will  wish  (as  likely  as 
not !)  that  they  did  not  wear  garments  which 
are  neither  African  nor  English,  and  more 
useful  than  picturesque.  But  they  discard 
them  in  the  sea,  and  these  bushes  veil  the  shore. 
I  wish  I  were  brown  and  lithe,  and  that  I  might 
live  as  free,  where  wavelets  ripple  in  for  ever 
on  the  coral  sands  in  the  sun  ! 


XI 

WITH    OPENED    EYES 

The  church  bell  has  been  calling  with  its 
quaintly  harsh  note  for  half  an  hour,  and  the 
brown  folk  have  nearly  filled  the  ungainly 
stone  building,  narrow- windowed  and  dark,  but 
imposing  among  the  thatch  and  daub  of  the 
village  houses.  It  is  early  enough  to  be  pleas- 
antly cool ;  but  already  the  sun  is  ablaze 
among  the  infinite  green  of  the  woods.  In  the 
vestry  the  queer  little  procession  is  mustering, 
small  to-day,  for  there  is  no  festival.  Two 
red-cassocked  boys  are  busy  with  the  brazier 
and  charcoal :  the  censer  lies  beside  them  ; 
two  others,  the  priest's  servers,  are  vesting 
with  a  complete  disregard  of  the  '  accidents  '  of 
cottas  ;  and  in  the  inner  room  the  priest  him- 
self is  robing.  He  was  a  slave-boy  fifty  years 
ago,  and  time  is  already  marking  him,  for  the 
African  ages  rapidly,  but  he  is  very  mindful 
of  the  dignity  of  his  office.  It  is  with  an  unde- 
niable air  that  he  folds  the  chasuble,  assumes 

01 


92  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

it,  puts  a  fold  straight  here  and  there,  and  then 
nods  to  the  bell-ringer — close  by  him  in  the 
confined  space — ^to  cease  the  ringing.  She  is  a 
woman  who  could  not  pretend  to  beauty  as  her 
nose  has  succumbed  to  the  vicissitudes  of  life, 
but  there  is  strength  in  her  arms  anyway.  We 
fall  in,  the  '  reader '  takes  his  place,  and  they 
begin  the  introit  as  we  enter  the  sanctuary. 

The  church  is  quite  full,  and  there  are  only  a 
few  European  sisters  among  the  Africans.  The 
women  on  their  side  are  dressed  in  native  fashion, 
one  shiti  wound  round  the  body  from  breast  to 
knee  and  another  thrown  over  the  shoulders. 
They  are  of  any  colour  and  pattern,  but  the  hand- 
kerchief on  the  head  is  usually  scarlet.  But  if 
they  are  barbaric  the  men  are  worse,  for  they 
have  left  native  dress  to  some  extent,  and  you 
can  pick  out  white  trousers  and  shirts  here  and 
there,  and  the  mixture  is  not  pleasing.  There 
is  no  organ  or  choir,  but  the  singing  is  as  hearty 
as  any  man  could  wish,  with  perhaps  a  little 
interest  thrown  in  !  A  very  low  stone  screen 
separates  the  chancel  from  the  nave,  and  the 
sense  of  space  is  grateful  within  it.  Through 
the  narrow  windows  one  sees  the  little  church- 
yard, hot  and  rich  in  the  sun,  alive  with  the 
hum  of  insects,  dotted  with  the  neat  uniform 


WITH  OPENED  EYES  93 

crosses  of  the  slave-people  who  have  gone.  *  / 
look  for  the  resurrection  of  the  dead  and  the  life  of 
the  world  to  come^^  we  chant. 

Missionaries  are  not  unjustly  accused  in  some 
quarters  of  an  excess  of  sentiment  where  their 
people  are  concerned,  and  it  is  easy  to  drop  into 
it.  But  we  are  not  always  so  !  To-day,  for 
instance,  I  was  merely  irritated  by  the  service. 
My  own  Offering  had  been  made  earlier,  and  I 
was  there,  as  a  visitor,  to  serve  the  chalice 
only,  and  I  was  used  to  the  appearance  of 
things.  Only  the  weakness  impressed  me.  The 
boys  were  grossly  careless  in  the  sanctuary; 
and  instead  of  behaving  as  you  expect  English 
boys  with  fifteen  centuries  of  Christianity  be- 
hind them  to  behave,  they  behaved  precisely 
like  Africans  whose  fathers  were  dragged  here 
in  chains  and  whose  homes  are  wattle  huts.  It 
was  most  annoying.  There  was  a  new  thurifer, 
too,  and  he  missed  the  '  Sanctus  '  altogether, 
and  strayed  in  during  the  Consecration,  half- 
way through  the  prayer,  with  a  complete  in- 
difference. Besides,  the  usual  precentor  was 
away,  and  we  got  far  too  high  for  the  congrega- 
tion because  we  depended  on  the  sisters ;  while 
the  priest  irritated  me,  first  because  he  tried 
to  monotone  the  collects  and  merely  murdered 


94  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

them,  and  secondly,  because  he  broke  the  order 
by  saying  the  '  Sursum  Corda  '  instead  of  try- 
ing to  sing  it.  Two  girls  chattered  in  front 
like  English  children,  one  showing  another  an 
absurd  ornament  she  was  wearing.  And  there 
were  other  things  ;  I  even  made  up  my  mind 
to  speak  to  the  Bishop. 

The  bell  rang  at  the  priest's  Communion,  and 
I  genuflected  and  went  to  the  altar.  The 
people  flocked  up  desultorily,  and  (Miserere 
mei,  Deus)  there  was  even  a  repulsion  at  that 
moment.  Most  of  the  old  people  have  been 
slaves,  and  they  are  still  fearful  of  kneeling 
before  the  congregation  near  a  white  man.  I 
thought  that  it  was  jealousy  for  the  Lord  God 
of  Hosts  that  made  me  angry  with  their  care- 
lessness ;  I  would,  if  I  could,  have  checked 
their  hasty  signing,  the  clumsy  sip,  the  shrink- 
ing so  inartistically  back,  and  the  rapid  depar- 
ture, in  one  case  before  I  had  finished  my 
administrating  sentence.  I  even  caught  two 
servers  whispering  together  while  they  pre- 
tended to  sing  the  Communion  hymn,  and  my 
attention  wavered  from  that  which  I  held  to 
look  at  them.  And  I  suppose  that  I  did  well 
to  regret  these  things,  for  it  was  not  all  as  it 
should  be. 


WITH  OPENED  EYES  95 

But  then  God  opened  my  eyes.  I  am  relating 
a  real  experience,  and  I  am  risking  the  charge 
of  sentimentality  precisely  because  of  its  reality. 
There  is  no  doubt  that  everything  was  normal 
and  commonplace  in  the  church,  and  it  is 
entirely  reasonable  to  say  that  this  kind  of 
thinking  is  foolishness.  But  God  opened  my 
eyes.  There  came  up  nearly  last  of  all  an  old 
woman,  white-headed,  raggedly  dressed,  ugly, 
and  lame.  She  limped  noisily  by  means  of  a 
rough  stick  torn  from  the  brake  and  bigger 
than  herself.  Her  own  length  from  the  place 
of  communion  she  let  this  fall  on  the  stones, 
and  threw  herself  forward  on  her  hands  and 
knees.  Half  crouching  there  she  turned  her 
mouth  up  to  the  chalice,  and  drank  as  repul- 
sively as  the  rest.     But  I  had  seen. 

Back  in  the  chancel  one  can  hide  one's  face, 
and  I  did  so.  I  am  not  ashamed.  I  would 
give  years  of  life  to  be  able  to  tell  the  know- 
ledge that  came  to  me  then,  but  it  cannot  be 
done.  Only  in  a  moment  I  knew  the  infinite 
love  of  God  ;  I  saw  how  that  rude  church  was 
bathed  in  the  radiance  of  it ;  how  the  heart  of 
our  Saviour  was  bared  and  throbbing  in  our 
midst,  and  how  His  hands  and  arms  were 
round  these  faulty  sheep.     It  was  their  weak- 


96  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

ness  that  He  loved.  It  was  their  harsh, 
frightened,  rude  devotion  that  He  was  pouring 
His  Blood  to  win.  And  more  :  He  Himself,  in 
the  person  of  these  brown  folk,  dropped  His 
stick  on  the  pavement,  and  fell  to  kneel  at  my 
feet.  And  I  had  criticised ;  I  had  listened  in 
my  heart  to  the  mad  folly  of  those  who  ask  if 
our  converts  are  successful ;  I  had  set  a  stan- 
dard of  devotion,  and  that  my  own !  It 
cannot  be  told  in  words,  but  I  wept  as  I  knelt. 
The  tears  came,  however,  not  because  I  was 
sorry,  nor  because  I  had  been  dull ;  not  even 
women's  tears  come  for  that.  I  wept  because 
I  felt  the  beatings  of  the  heart  of  God,  and 
because  I  was  scorched  and  torn  by  the  passion 
of  His  love. 

We  stood  up  for  the  '  Gloria  in  excelsis  Deo,' 
but  I  could  not  sing  it.  The  angels  were  sing- 
ing it  about  me,  and  one  cannot  sing  with  them  ; 
I  pray  His  Mother,  who  has  wept,  will  present 
what  I  had  to  bring  instead.  We  knelt  for  the 
blessing,  and  the  peace  of  God  came  as  a  strong 
man  armed  to  keep  His  house.  We  stood 
while  they  washed  the  marks  of  sacrifice  on 
earth  away ;  but  God  was  showing  me  where 
fingers  can  be  put  still  into  the  print  of  the 
nails  and  hands  thrust  still  into  His  side.     And 


WITH  OPENED  EYES  97 

we  passed  out  into  the  sun,  the  brown  children 
scattering  for  home  who  did  not  know  that  they 
were  glorified.  I  stumbled  away  down  the 
little  stony  road  where  lizards  dart  across  the 
path  and  birds  sing  high  in  the  casuarina  trees, 
and  as  I  went  I  knew  where  I  had  been.  What 
matters  it  that  these,  His  sheep,  are  so  harsh 
and  rude  and  poor  ?  The  Blood  of  God  has 
stained  their  lips,  and  Hands  sealed  with  the 
promise  of  eternal  keeping  shield  them  round  ; 
and  they  kneel  in  the  Gate  of  Heaven,  which 
shall  not  be  shut  again,  for  the  honour  of  God, 
while  He  tabernacles  among  men. 


o 


XII 

SILVESTER 

I  REMEMBER  that  I  saw  the  old  man  first  at  the 
altar  of  his  village  church.  My  own  service  in 
another  chapel  was  over,  and  I  new  to  the 
place,  so  that  I  had  strolled  down  the  path  from 
the  clergy-house  under  the  wind-tossed  casu- 
arinas  to  meet  my  friend,  the  English  priest, 
at  the  conclusion  of  the  village  devotions.  As 
it  chanced,  old  Silvester  was  celebrating.  He 
stood  at  the  altar  facing  the  people  with  the 
big  book  in  his  hand,  glancing  now  at  it  and 
now  at  the  people  over  the  rim  of  his  big  spec- 
tacles. His  woolly  thatch  is  grey  and  his  face 
seamed  somewhat ;  he  was  bare-foot,  according 
to  custom,  in  an  old  chasuble  which  would  be 
abandoned,  I  take  it,  if  the  Mission  could  afford 
a  new  one  ;  and  below  an  alb  considerably  too 
short  for  him,  as  well  as  at  the  wrists,  peeped 
out  the  native  under-garment,  rather  suggestive 
below  of  a  red-and- white  petticoat.  His  voice 
rang  clear  and  strong,  however,  and  there  was 


SILVESTER  99 

a  touch  of  dignity  about  him.  He  bent  him- 
self at  the  Elevation  and  his  own  Communion 
with  a  freedom  of  devotion  very  African  and 
wholly  spontaneous,  and  at  the  end  he  was 
liberal  in  his  blessing. 

We  met  at  breakfast,  for  on  these  days  he 
breakfasts  at  the  clergy-house  and  I  sit  opposite 
him.  The  old  face — old,  that  is,  for  an  African 
—is  an  expressive  one,  shrewd,  I  thought,  and 
perhaps  a  little  hard.  That  is  an  impression 
difficult  to  account  for,  but  it  is  undoubtedly 
there  despite  his  geniality  and  friendliness. 
His  English  is  beyond  praise,  but  he  prefers  the 
native,  and  invariably  answers  English  ques- 
tions in  that  tongue  if  he  can.  In  the  native 
he  gesticulates  like  one  of  his  own  old  folks  on 
the  shamha,  but  he  freezes  a  little  when  his 
tongue  sets  itself  to  the  framing  of  our  words. 
He  is  short  and  thick-set,  but  active  enough. 
I  noticed  no  more  at  table  than  that  he  appeared 
rather  to  eat  bacon  with  his  mustard  than 
mustard  with  his  bacon  ! 

Since  that  day  we  have  grown  to  know  one 
another ;  and,  for  my  part,  it  is  a  real  pleasure 
to  look  at  him  across  the  table,  to  hear  his 
talk,  and  to  realise  all  that  he  stands  for  in 
the  life  of  the  Church  to-day.     To  begin  with, 


100  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

to  company  with  him  is  like  being  transported 
to  the  times  of  the  dawn  of  the  Faith  in  our 
own  England.  He  has  moved  among  great 
persons,  bishops  of  apostolic  memory,  con- 
fessors of  simple  faith  ;  he  has  come  out  of  an 
age  as  rude  as  that  of  Alban  or  Augustine  ;  he 
has  seen  men  adore  that  which  they  had  burned, 
and  burn  that  which  they  had  adored.  At  six 
he  was  bundled  out  of  a  slave-dhow  into  the 
open  market  of  the  city,  and  he  watched,  with 
panic  fear,  the  giving  of  his  batch  of  slave-boys 
to  the  dread  white  man  by  the  Sultan.  He  was 
baptized  by  Tozer  ;  he  was  taught  by  Steere  ; 
he  was  ordained  by  Smythies ;  by  men,  that 
is,  apostolic  in  their  day,  whose  mantling  by 
the  Spirit  we  look  back  upon  with  awe.  He 
saw  the  hideous  horrors  of  that  market  where 
now  the  Cathedral  stands — the  Cathedral  which 
he  saw  built,  in  which  he  was  the  first  African 
to  be  admitted  to  the  priesthood,  and  whose 
soil  he  watched  consecrated  by  the  body  of  its 
founder.  He  heard  when  men,  racked  with 
fever,  told  of  the  flickering  flame  at  Magila 
and  beyond  ;  he  himself  ministered  alone  in  a 
village  with  marauding  tribes  at  its  gates  ;  and 
he  was  with  Bishop  Smythies  when  Hannington 
of  Uganda  came  up  to  meet  the  older  man,  and 


SILVESTER  101 

went  on  trail  at  last,  though  little  knowing,  to 
the  darkness  of  that  loathsome  hut  on  the  edge 
of  his  diocese  and  to  the  spears  at  dawn.  He 
has  been  to  England,  and  was  the  guest  of 
Benson  and  of  Temple.  His  life  is  coincident 
with  the  birth  of  an  East  African  Church,  whose 
story,  permeated  with  an  immortal  Gospel,  is 
immortal  too.  And  he  is;  stjU  the  African  in 
dress  and  manner,  content  among  the  Kiits  of 
his  people.  '.     a\  ;„.::.•;  1 ;    :  :  ^' 

This,  then,  is  what  the  least  ghost  of  a  his- 
torical imagination  seizes  upon  as  it  regards 
him ;  but,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  Silvester  is  no 
paragon.  He  is  not  old  enough  to  be  as  little 
busy  as  he  is,  and  he  has  most  of  the  African 
faults  in  his  character  as  well.  Despite  the 
years  of  good  labour,  grave  siiis  have  marred 
his  work,  bringing  with  them  months  of  sorrow 
to  more  than  himself.  That  is  past  now,  but 
one  always  wishes  that  he  trained  his  servers, 
that  he  prepared  his  sermons,  and  that  he 
forgave  his  enemies !  He  was  incredulous 
when  the  Balkan  allies  spared  thousands  of 
Turkish  prisoners,  for  he  himself  has  been 
under  the  heel  of  Islam.  I  saw  him  flame 
with  anger  when  he  learned  that  the  son  of 
Bishop  Hannington  had  baptized  the  son  of 


102  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

his  father's  murderer,  and  his  illogical  attitude 
to  certain  Church  questions  is  as  annoying  as 
his  incredible  Conservatism !  And  there  is 
more,  too.  It  comes  to  one  very  sadly  at  times 
that  there  seems  so  often  to  be  in  so  many 
Africans  a  lack  of  that  spirit  of  consecration 
which  is  the  soul  of  religion,  and  even  a  tend- 
ency-.ta  forget  tlxat  Christianity  is  devotion  to 
a  Person  rrioie  tJian-the  acceptance  of  an  ethic. 
.  "Xii  a  .wo^,:  i^ilv^stejr  is  an  admirable  illus- 
tration of  the  faults  of  the  native  Church  ;  and 
that  is  precisely  why  I  want  to  write  about 
him.  He  seems  to  me  to  be  the  conclusive 
answer  to  those  objectors  to  the  missionary 
campaign  who  profess  to  find  in  him  and  such 
as  him  their  strongest  argument.  What  strikes 
one  first  is  the  enormous  difference  between 
what  this  man  is  in  his  age  and  what  he  would 
have  been  without  Christ.  Of  course,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  he  would  probably  have  found 
before  this  that  early  African  grave  of  vice 
and  lust ;  or  else,  a  doddering  old  scandal- 
monger, he  would  be  crouching  round  some 
village  fire  and  lending  the  influence  of  his 
grey  hairs  to  the  pollution  of  the  village  youth 
in  the  tribal  ceremonies.  The  contrast  is 
beyond  words.     He   is   one  who  might  have 


SILVESTER  108 

remained  sitting  in  darkness  and  the  shadow 
of  death,  and  upon  whom  the  Light  has  shined. 

But  it  is  not  here  that  I  find  the  most  striking 
consideration,  rather  it  Kes  in  the  fact  that 
gathered  into  this  man's  Hfe  are  all  those  factors 
which  have  conquered  and  are  conquering  the 
primal  brute  instincts  of  man  and  the  degra- 
dation of  his  sinful  will.  Consider  Silvester's 
children.  They  have  not  been  dragged  up 
from  the  slave-market ;  instead  their  lives 
have  been  strengthened  by  that  environment 
which  for  so  many  years  has  been  about  their 
father.  Heathen  children  are  cursed  from  the 
start ;  these  are  free  to  run.  The  heathen  are 
bogged  hopelessly  in  a  state  to  which  every- 
thing that  ennobles  has  no  access ;  his  are 
placed  in  the  broad  uplands  of  life,  swept  clean 
by  the  winds  of  the  Spirit,  and  lit  by  the  cheer 
of  the  sun.  You  can  see  what  effect  it  has 
had  as  you  look  at  them ;  and  one  thinks  of 
their  children's  children. 

And  the  old  man  has  even  some  grip  of  the 
Gospel  which  we  have  not  got,  whatever  may 
be  said  for  it.  When  he  was  told  at  table  by 
another  of  the  differences  in  faith  and  prac- 
tice existent  in  a  neighbouring  Mission,  he  re- 
fused to  see  their  significance.     '  When  you 


104  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

white  men  have  gone,'  he  said,  '  we  shall  agree. 
You  argue  and  talk  and  we  have  to  listen,  but 
when  you  have  gone  we  shall  remember  that 
for  all  of  us  it  is  the  same,  the  darkness  out  of 
which  we  came  and  the  light  in  which  we  are.^ 


XIII 

WHEN   TROPIC    SEAS   ARE    OUT 

When  the  sea  goes  down  it  leaves  a  stretch 
of  wonderland  before  the  clergy-house.  Two 
miles  out  is  the  greater  coral  reef,  and  a  little 
more  than  a  mile  nearer  in  than  that  are  the 
sand-banks  and  coral  ridges  of,  as  it  were,  the 
mainland.  This  last  mile  is,  at  high  water,  a 
shallow  stretch  of  scarcely  varying  depth  from 
which  the  tide  can  drain  away  with  wonderful 
rapidity.  Once  down,  the  yellow  sands  are 
broken  now  by  great  pools  of  water,  now  by 
stretches  of  green  and  brown  weed,  now  by 
projecting  saws  of  coral  rock,  and  in  one  place 
by  an  immense  mangrove  '  swamp.'  The  deep 
water  beyond  is  edged  by  white  banks  of  coral 
sand,  upon  which  the  great  sea-birds  strut  until 
the  narrow  outrigger  canoes  of  the  fishermen 
send  them  screaming  out  to  sea.  The  sun 
bathes  it  by  day  and  seams  the  wide  sea  beyond 
with  shades  of  colour  which  add  to  the  glories 
of  the  shore.     And  by  night  the  white  moon 

106 


106  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

floods  a  path  of  glory  right  across  it,  and  the 
stars  are  caught  in  the  face  of  the  shallows.  It 
is  a  real  wonderland. 

I  had  often  looked  at  it  (and,  to  tell  the 
truth,  written  about  it)  before  I  had  leisure  to 
explore  it,  but  the  other  day  time  and  place 
'  made  themselves,'  as  Lady  Macbeth  puts  it. 
The  tide  was  far  out  by  eight  o'clock,  and 
cumulus  clouds,  flanked  by  skirmishers  of 
cirrus,  suggested  that  it  would  not  be  so  hot  for 
a  couple  of  hours  as  it  sometimes  is.  So  I  put 
on  a  worn  coat,  rolled  up  my  trousers,  slung  a 
camera  over  my  shoulders,  pushed  a  pair  of  old 
slippers  into  my  pockets  (for  the  patches  of 
coral  rock  are  like  the  inside  of  the  barrel  of 
Regulus  !),  and  set  a  big  sun-helmet  on  the 
back  of  my  head.  Then  I  took  a  stick  and  set 
out. 

It  is  going  to  be  impossible  to  tell  of  all  that 
kept  the  way  to  the  final  enchantment  of  those 
white  sand-banks  I  had  set  out  to  quest.  Be- 
sides, I  do  not  know  the  names  of  half  the 
things  I  saw,  and  I  cannot  tell  you  anything 
scientific,  so  perhaps  a  full  account  would  not 
be  worth  the  while.  But  if  you  want  to  step 
into  a  land  of  living  Grimm— positively  to  see 
mermaids'  caverns  and  fairy  fish— I  am  your 


WHEN  TROPIC  SEAS  ARE  OUT     107 

man  !  That  is  the  best  of  not  being  scientific. 
If  I  had  been,  I  suppose  I  should  have  caught 
and  stuffed  the  fish,  dried  the  weeds,  boiled  the 
shell-fish  for  their  shells,  and  reduced  the 
eternal  realities  of  wonderland  to  the  transient 
unrealities  of  science.  Because,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  when  every  scientific  treatise  has  gone 
the  way  of  the  Bestiaire  Divin  and  the  Herbal 
of  Avicenna,  tropic  seas  will  still  leave  on 
African  sands  the  inexplicable  marvels  of  the 
least  of  these. 

For  the  wonder  of  them  is,  indeed,  the  wonder 
of  another  world.  First  a  great  sheet  of  warm 
water  barred  my  way.  I  stepped  down  into 
it  and  peered.  Some  feet  of  clear  water  lay 
between  the  edge  of  sand  and  the  beginning 
of  a  great  forest  of  weed,  and  in  that  channel  a 
world  of  creatures  was  at  work.  There  were 
dozens  of  sea-urchins  to  begin  with,  but  sea- 
urchins  more  fearfully  and  wonderfully  made 
than  any  that  I  have  ever  seen  at  home. 
Imagine  a  small  black  ball,  flat  underneath 
where  is  the  busy  grumbling  mouth  of  the 
creature  (ever  hard  at  work  seeking  food),  and 
then  set  upon  it  a  hundred  long  thin  black 
spines,  brittle  if  I  tried  to  break  them,  but 
strong  enough  to  ward  off  heavy  weights  when 


108  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

I  dropped  shell -fish  upon  them  through  the 
water.  The  spines  were  at  least  six  or  seven 
inches  long,  and  all  of  them  busily  moving 
about,  fending  off  fish,  and  helping  their  owners 
along.  Right  in  the  centre  of  the  spines  was 
a  yellow  blob  of  jelly  with  a  red  centre  and,  set 
about  it  at  regular  distances,  a  pentagon  of 
white  spots  for  all  the  world  like  five  white- 
headed  pins  which  a  child  had  buried  to  the 
head  in  a  big  pincushion.  The  yellow  jelly 
may  have  been  an  eye ;  I  don't  know ;  any- 
way it  looked  like  it ;  and  there  were  your 
monsters  all  complete.  I  stood  and  looked  at 
them  in  utter  amazement  until  I  saw  a  more 
wonderful  thing  still.  Every  now  and  then  a 
glint  of  the  most  vivid  fairy  blue  imaginable 
showed  from  underneath  an  overhanging  ledge 
of  stone.  Presently  it  stayed  long  enough  for 
me  to  see  that  it  was  a  wee  head,  very  wise- 
looking  and  very  busy.  Then  in  a  moment  a 
blue  flash  shot  to  the  edge  of  the  weed  forest 
and  returned  more  slowly,  I  suppose  with  food. 
I  saw  now  the  whole  fish.  He  was  perhaps  an 
inch  long,  perhaps  not  as  much,  silver  except 
for  two  bold  bars  of  azure  which  met  on  his 
head  and  ended  on  his  sides  in  two  great  circles 
with   scarlet   hearts.     While   I   looked   I   saw 


WHEN  TROPIC  SEAS  ARE  OUT     109 

more,  and  once  one  found  refuge  under  the 
curve  of  my  foot  as  I  stood  in  the  water. 

Down  the  channel  came  saiUng  a  squadron 
of  heavy  grey-brown  fish  with  big  eyes.  They 
jostled  the  urchins  out  of  the  way,  and  drove 
the  sky-blues  into  the  caverns  of  the  stones  or 
the  depths  of  the  forest.  They  were  so  solemn 
and  big  that  I  dived  with  my  stick  at  the  leader 
—and  they  fled  in  grey  arrows  to  the  deeps 
ahead. 

I  landed  to  follow,  and  then  saw  my  first  sea- 
slug.  He  is  one  of  those  beasts  which  leave 
you  marvelling  at  the  inscrutable  Will  of  God. 
One  almost  dares  to  ask  how  such  things  came 
to  be.  Picture  a  bloated  mass  of  podgy  jelly 
substance,  with  a  skin,  though,  too  hard  to  be 
pierced  at  all  easily  even  with  a  heavy  stick. 
About  three-quarters  of  him  is  covered  with 
innumerable  feet  like  those  of  a  star-fish,  but 
they  all  move  so  slowly  and  are  so  relatively 
small  that  you  do  not  see  them  at  first.  These 
make  up  his  underneath  and  sides,  but  there 
seems  no  other  way  of  telling  which  is  his  back 
or  which  his  front,  for  he  is  destitute  of  figure  ! 
He  did  not  appear  to  have  a  head,  and  I  had 
no  idea  which  end  was  his  tail  until,  stirred 
into  action,  his  billion  legs  began  to  work,  and 


110  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

he  moved  blindly  into  sand  and  weed  for  what- 
ever it  is  the  good  God  has  taught  him  to  look. 
There  he  will  lie  until  the  seas  come  in,  or  until 
a  boy  with  a  sharp  stick,  seeking  his  like,  trans- 
fixes him,  and  carries  him,  with  fifty  of  his 
brethren  thus  impaled,  to  the  market.  Some- 
times he  is  black,  but  sometimes  tabby  like  a 
cat — if  you  can  imagine  tabbiness  without  fur  ! 
I  left  the  whole  twelve  inches  of  his  grossness 
lying  on  the  shore,  and  went  on. 

It  was  in  a  place  of  many  waters  that  lay 
on  the  far  side  of  some  hundred  yards  of  shingle 
that  I  waited  next.  Three  big  streams  from 
pools  farther  up  the  beach  poured  in  cataracts 
over  the  edge  of  the  shingle-bed  and  made  one 
river  to  the  sea.  The  waters  raced  past  like  a 
Scottish  river  in  miniature ;  and  the  very  trout 
were  there,  no  other  than  my  grey-coated 
friends,  ensconced  behind  likely  eddies,  nose  to 
the  stream,  awaiting  what  might  come.  But  I 
left  them  in  order  to  watch  the  crabs.  There 
must  have  been  half  a  dozen  different  kinds  at 
work  in  the  rush  of  water,  devouring  the  food 
which  the  streams  brought  down,  or  one  another 
in  the  intervals  of  waiting.  One  enormous 
fellow  with  a  crimson  back,  yellow  sides,  and 
huge  blue  eyes  set  on  the  end  of  brown  towers 


WHEN  TROPIC  SEAS  ARE  OUT     111 

which  stuck  far  out  before  him,  had  no  rival. 
He  put  up  a  fight  with  a  transparent  sand-crab 
whose  principal  nipper  is  enormously  developed 
so  that  he  may  burrow  in  the  sand,  but  the 
red  knight  won  in  a  couple  of  rounds  and  tore 
his  foe  up  before  my  eyes.     He  left  the  carcass 
for  better  prey,  and  a  host  of  wee  green  brethren, 
with  a  scuttling  power  beyond  all  praise,  cleared 
up   the   feast.     I   do   not   know   how   long   I 
watched— until,   I  think,  the  rivers  began  to 
dry  at  their  source,  and  I  went  off,  still  after 
i^y  grey  fish,  to  the  sea.     The  way  lay  for  me 
across  a  wet  field  of  sand  and  coral  stones 
covered  with  the  slush  of  sea- weed  ;  and  it  was 
hard  going.     Once  or  twice  the  yielding  sands 
sank  me  to  the  knee,  but  I  had  no  fear  of  this 
until  I  almost  trod  on  a  strange  creature  that 
very  nearly  paralyses  description.     He  was  a 
big  worm,   perhaps  four  feet  in  length,   but 
without  even  a  worm's  agility  or  speed.     He  lay 
across  the  wrack,  and  I  thought  him  dead  until 
I  stirred  him  with  a  stick.     He  was  coppery- 
red  and  grey,  and  if  you  lifted  him  by  the 
middle  on  the  stick,  all  the  watery  substance 
of  him  ran  down  into  a  bulge  on  either  side  like 
a  stopped  india-rubber  tube  half  filled  with 
water.     I  thought  him  a  monstrosity  like  the 


112  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

slug  until  he  woke  up  into  life.  Then  one  end 
of  him  frayed  out  into  a  cluster  of  delicate 
tender  fronds  resembling  the  curled  and  sensi- 
tive leaves  of  a  young  fern,  but  waving  about 
as  the  fleshy  arms  of  the  sea-anemone  do. 
These,  a  blushing  pink,  worked  nervously 
among  the  slither  and  forced  a  way  for  the 
helpless  body  out  of  sight.  There  were  many 
more  here  and  there,  but  although  I  expect  it 
was  foolish,  I  rather  feared  the  creature  and 
left  the  others.  His  head  was  a  miracle  of 
grace,  his  body  the  dream  of  a  nightmare.  You 
felt  about  him  exactly  as  you  feel  about  some 
people  of  peculiar  bodily  grace  and  hideous 
spiritual  deformity.  Of  course,  that  is  being 
hard  on  the  poor  serpent-worm,  who  was  such 
a  poor  attempt  at  either  a  serpent  or  a  worm. 
But  I  cannot  help  it,  he  reminded  me  of  devils. 
After  all,  he  had  this  in  common  even  with 
Lucifer,  that  he  began  very  well  and  ended  very 
badly. 

This  field  of  horrors  led  to  another  stream  of 
clear  water,  and  I  followed  it  to  the  sea.  Then 
I  skirted  the  edge,  ever  trending  out,  until  the 
wavelets  gave  back  at  last  upon  the  coral  sands 
of  my  search. 

I  had  not  the  least  thought  that  it  would  be 


WHEN  TROPIC  SEAS  ARE  OUT     118 

half  as  beautiful  as  it  was.  The  sea  was  pearl- 
grey  except  where  the  ripples  rolled  in,  in  blue 
rolls  of  water  too  quiet  even  to  break  on  the 
sands.  Before,  the  clear  sun  danced  on  a  limit- 
less sea ;  behind,  the  wastes  over  which  I  had 
come  seemed  very  wide.  Far  away,  at  the 
head  of  the  promontory,  green  with  waving 
cocoa-nut  palms,  the  white  and  red  of  the  town 
pushed  out  into  the  distant  blue,  a  dream-city 
seemingly,  very  fair.  The  great  bowl  of  the 
sky  leaned  over  all,  not  burning  yet  but  just 
a  promise,  in  its  infinite  vast  remoteness,  of 
eternal  life.  Sea-birds  strutted,  as  I  had 
guessed,  all  unconcerned ;  and  it  was  very 
still.  One  understood  a  little  '  What  Time 
in  mists  confounds,'  and  how  sometimes 

'  Those  shaken  mists  a  space  unsettle,  then 
Round  the  half-gHmpsed  turrets  slowly  wash  again.' 

I  watched  till  the  fisher-folk  came  with  their 
nets,  and  the  skirmishers  of  a  small  army  of 
brown  women,  scantily  girt  in  a  single  cloth, 
invaded  my  sands.     Then  I  began  to  go. 

But  a  hundred  yards  higher  up  the  marge 
of  the  sea  several  long  brown  canoes,  an  out- 
post of  the  army,  had  come  ashore.  Most  of 
them  were  outriggers,  the  clumsy  rough  timbers 
shearing  through  the  water  alongside  the  narrow 

H 


114  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

hoUowed-out  log  of  the  main  body  of  the  boat, 
as  the  sailors  drove  it  through.     Two  sorts  of 
paddles  they  use,  one  spear-shaped  and  power- 
ful, the  other  nothing  more  than  a  hollowed 
calabash  fastened  on  the  end  of  a  pole,  and 
used   to   make   way   by   a   kind   of  scooping 
process.     One  bigger  craft  had  a  queer  trian- 
gular sail  that  bagged  out  in  the  wind,  but  now 
a  native,  yelling  over  his  shoulder,  was  begin- 
ning to  haul  it  down.     It  was  evident  enough 
what  he  was  saying,  for  the  rest  of  the  boats, 
some  ashore,  some  half  afloat,  were  stretched 
in  a  wide  circle,  their  owners  busy  over  the 
side  with  the  top  hamper  of  a  big  net.     As  I 
watched,  one  and  another  leapt  waist-deep  into 
the  sea.     The  sailed  canoe  ran  sharply  into  a 
vacant  corner,  and  its  owners  followed  suit. 
Then  began  a  scene  of  great  animation  while 
the  odd  dozen  of  fishers  began  to  land  the  seine. 
The  vehement  captain  of  the  big  canoe  directed 
operations,  he  himself  a  study  worth  a  sketch, 
for  he  was  blacker  than  the  rest  and  more 
stalwart  (not  a  Swahili,  I  imagine),  and  you 
could  see  the  muscles  of  him  rippling  under 
the  velvet  skin  of  arms  and  thighs  as  he  strained 
at  his  part.     A  few  women,  hitching  up  their 
cloths,  splashed  round  the  edge ;    and  gradu- 


WHEN  TROPIC  SEAS  ARE  OUT     115 

ally  the  whole  came  ashore.  It  was  wonder- 
fully beautiful  as  the  silver  streaks  gleamed  and 
flashed  in  the  sun,  but  as  the  water  dried  off  the 
whole  half-circle  seemed  turned  to  living  silver. 
Mornings  with  the  Brixham  trawlers  and 
memories  of  the  hauls  to  be  seen  on  Yarmouth 
beach  came  to  mind  now,  but  the  fish  them- 
selves are  so  different !  To  us  they  seem  more 
grotesque.  Curiously  bloated  things  are  some  ; 
others  yet  more  curiously  sword-nosed  and 
long-finned  ;  while  all  are  fantastically  coloured 
as  those  may  not  be  whose  home  lies  on  the 
dull  sands  of  the  North  Sea.  I  was  irresistibly 
reminded  of  a  picture-book  that  has  long  since 
gone  the  way  of  most  of  the  other  companions 
of  those  days,  in  which  I  used,  aged  six  or  seven, 
to  speculate  on  the  queer  faces  of  the  fish  that 
lay  huddled  on  the  shores  of  Galilee  by  the 
feet  of  the  sons  of  Zebedee.  The  artist  had 
more  wit  than  I  imagined  in  those  days,  because 
I  remember,  even  now,  my  early  scepticisms. 
How  long  ago  it  seems  !  Yet  there  is  no  kind  of 
doubt  that  seines  such  as  these  were  hauled  here 
far  longer  than  a  span  so  short  as  twenty  years 
ago.  If  the  Master  from  Nazareth  had  walked 
these  shores  in  His  day  He  would  have  seen 
the  same.     He  would  have  done  here  what  He 


116  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

did  there  too — as  I  must  try,  when  I  have 
skill. 

The  living  coral  can  be  found  here,  not  white 
like  the  broken  pieces  that  strew  the  distant 
beach,  but  a  living  pink.  Each  branched  arm 
is  itself  a  home  of  innumerable  creatures,  from 
minute  crabs  with  pearl  bodies  and  spidery 
green  legs  which  dodge  round  the  holes  and 
knobs  with  wonderful  speed,  down  to  slender 
barnacles  who  spread  feathery  fans  of  tissue 
to  trap  invisible  atoms  if  you  leave  them  for  a 
while  in  the  water.  Little  sponges  lodge  in  the 
tangle  of  weed  and  sand  that  collects  in  the 
hollows,  and  it  is  almost  with  the  sensation  of 
breaking  a  sentient  creature  that  you  snap  an 
arm  of  the  mass.  I  broke  a  piece  and  flung  it 
out  to  sea,  and  with  it  went,  I  suppose,  thou- 
sands of  creatures — each  one  planned,  each  one 
known,  each  one  approved.  One  stands  dumb 
with  the  wonder  of  it. 

My  return  lay  through  the  mangrove  swamp, 
which  stretches  towards  the  sea  from  the  shore  ; 
but  a  mangrove  swamp,  at  any  rate  as  we  see 
them  in  East  Africa,  is  not  a  swamp  at  all.  It  is 
a  beautiful  place  of  mystery.  The  sand  gives 
suddenly,  here  and  there,  on  coral  rock,  incred- 
ibly sharp,  and  rising  in  fantastic  masses  ten 


WHEN  TROPIC  SEAS  ARE  OUT     117 

or  twelve  feet  high.  Some  of  these  are  never 
covered  by  the  tide,  and  they  swarm  with 
crabs  and  lizards.  The  combination  is  amazing, 
and  one  wonders  what  the  beasts  make  of  it 
themselves,  for  the  crabs  disappear  below  the 
water  when  the  tide  rises,  and  the  lizards  retreat 
before  it  to  the  summit.  The  crabs  are  little 
brown -green  fellows,  whose  agility  is  only 
second  to  that  of  the  slim  steely  lizards  who 
run  in  and  out  of  the  knife  blades  and  needle 
points  so  quickly  that  you  can  hardly  see  them 
go.  I  crept  into  one  cavern,  and  the  arching 
roof  became  alive  with  them  after  I  had  been 
still  a  moment.  Sometimes  the  rising  tide 
must  imprison  them  here,  and  then  the  crabs 
come  in  !  You  can  make  a  pretty  nightmare 
of  it  if  you  try  : — the  dainty  lizard  in  the  bell  of 
the  roof  with  his  retreat  cut  off ;  the  rising 
water  ;  the  throbbing  of  imprisoned  air  space ; 
the  crabs  pushing  out  of  the  water,  masters  at 
last.     What  horror  ! 

The  mangroves  themselves  are  the  strangest 
trees.  One  pictures  them  as  great,  rooty, 
noisome  swamps  where  the  sun  never  comes 
and  unclean  insects  buzz  and  swarm ;  but 
whatever  they  are  on  the  West  Coast  rivers, 
they  are  not  so  here.      Instead,   out  of  the 


118  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

golden  sand,  these  graceful  green  stems  stand 
up  straight,  spreading  into  thick  bushy  trees 
whose  blossoms  in  their  season  attract  thousands 
of  lively  brown  bees  reminiscent  of  English 
meadows  in  the  summer.  But  the  queer 
thing  about  them  is  that  their  roots,  spraying 
out  geometrically  like  radii  from  the  centre, 
push  up  short  and  brave  in  every  direction, 
so  that  you  pick  your  way  through  their  stumpy 
hosts  with  a  certain  difficulty.  Pools  of  salt 
water  lie  between,  mostly  crab-haunted,  with 
a  few  small  fish  ;  but  the  combination  of  land 
and  sea  is  a  very  strange  one.  I  like  it,  though ; 
one  has  that  queer  kind  of  feeling  that  any- 
thing might  happen.  The  natives,  indeed, 
think  so,  and  fluttering  rags  on  one  tree  by  the 
sand-ridge  which  pushes  out  between  us  tell 
the  tale.  Maybe  in  the  dark  of  the  moon  it  is 
eerie  enough  ;  now  I  find  it,  in  the  sun,  only  one 
of  the  strange  gardens  where  God  might  be 
supposed  to  walk.  After  all,  when  it  was 
made.  He  looked  on  this  too  and  found  it  good. 
As  I  passed  up  to  the  shore  I  hit  on  a  kenge 
so  busy  about  his  own  affairs  that  he  never 
noticed  me.  I  crept  to  a  sheltering  trunk 
within  six  feet  of  him,  and  he  neither  saw  nor 
heard.     He  was  perhaps  three  feet  long,  small 


WHEN  TROPIC  SEAS  ARE  OUT     119 

for  his  kind,  a  heavy-looking,  dull  brown  lizard 
with  a  white  throat  and  a  powerful  tail  pinked 
out  in  black.  You  would  not  have  expected 
much  agility  from  his  fat  trailing  body,  but  as 
I  watched  he  whisked  here  and  there,  raised 
himself  high  on  his  stumpy  fore-feet,  snapped 
right  and  left,  and  seemed  to  be  all  eyes  like 
the  beasts  of  the  Apocalypse.  A  swarm  of  big- 
winged  fly  had  hatched  out  in  the  sun,  from 
eggs  laid,  as  likely  as  not,  among  the  dry  sand 
of  the  forest  fringe,  and  several  score  of  them 
were  fluttering  aimlessly  about  on  unaccustomed 
wings.  My  kenge  got  an  odd  dozen  while  I 
watched,  though  he  was  fairly  heavily  handi- 
capped one  would  have  thought.  I  expect  the 
flies  knew  nothing  till  his  cruel  mouth  snapped 
at  them,  which  was,  of  course,  the  reason  for 
his  success ;  and  thus  I  pitied  the  flies  at  last. 
The  lizard  seemed  an  evil  beast  as  the  light 
flashed  iridescent  on  the  jewelled  wings  of  the 
aimless  fluttering  crowd.  How  incredible  it  is 
that  this  should  be  part  of  the  Will  of  God ; 
that  this  busy  corner  should  be  as  present  to 
Him  as  the  hum  of  a  distant  city  or  the  travail 
of  some  soul ;  that,  yet  more.  He  should  be 
somehow  immanent  here  !  I  drew  my  breath 
with  awe,  and  dropped  the  little  stone  I  had 


120  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

picked  up  with  which  to  do  battle  for  the  flies  ; 
instead,  I  crept  away,  and  left  God  to  attend  to 
His  own  world. 

The  sea  has  covered  the  flats  while  I  have 
been  writing,  and  the  blue  flood  is  flecked  with 
the  white  sails  of  the  fisher-boats  I  watched  but 
now  stranded  on  the  banks  a  thousand  yards 
away.  They  speed  away  as  the  white  souls 
sped  past  the  Blessed  Damozel  who  leans  on 
the  golden  bar  of  heaven.  And  behind  them 
the  limitless  irresistible  sea  covers  the  jewelled 
fish,  the  grey  slow  slug,  the  writhing  sea-worm, 
and  the  teeming  coral,  like  that  love  of  God 
that  is  so  much  broader  than  the  measures  of 
man's  mind. 


XIV 

THE    GHOST-POOLS    OF   KOMBENI 

The  sea  was  smooth  as  glass  and  pearl-grey  in 
the  morning  light  as  I  pulled  my  bicycle  out  at 
dawn,  and  the  blue  smoke  hung  over  the  huts 
of  the  village  in  the  damp  air,  African  morn- 
ings are  never  to  be  forgotten.  Here  a  reason- 
able road  runs  straight  out  under  the  cocoa 
palms,  and  the  huts  cluster,  each  in  its  own 
setting  of  wide  banana  leaves  and  graceful 
cassava,  all  the  way  along  it.  There  are,  of 
course,  no  hedges,  nor  indeed  fences  of  any 
description ;  flowering  bushes  and  trees  abound, 
and  crotons  of  every  hue  show  among  the 
greens.  As  early  as  this  people  are  astir. 
Women,  in  a  single  dark  cloth  wrapped  tightly 
about  them,  are  lighting  fires,  or  returning 
with  the  water,  or  loosing  the  goats  whose 
sound  fills  the  air.  You  see  a  few  babies 
a-sprawl  on  mats ;  the  young  rascals  of  boys  are 
still  asleep.  But  most  of  the  men  will  set  out 
for  town,  five  miles  away,  in  half  an  hour  or  so. 

121 


122  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

The  road  through  the  village  strikes  the 
main  way  to  the  south  end  of  the  island  at 
an  askari  box,  with  the  drooping  scarlet  flag  of 
the  Sultan's  Government  on  a  pole  by  the  door 
and  the  native  policeman  himself,  in  smart 
khaki  and  a  red  tarbusch,  rather  sleepy  on  a 
bench  beside  it.  He  saluted  cheerily  and  gave 
me  a  Jambo  in  return  for  mine  ;  and  then  I 
saw  my  friend.  We  two  had  planned  the  ex- 
cursion together,  and  I  had  put  my  life  in  his 
hands  by  leaving  the  arrangements  to  him.  He 
is  a  young  Goan,  bom  in  the  Seychelles,  a  little 
dark,  but  vivacious  and  clever  enough  to  hope 
enthusiastically  for  a  medical  course  at  Aberdeen 
when  his  brother  returns  from  seven  years' 
exile  among  its  granite,  mists,  and  snows.  It 
is  an  amazing  journey  for  him  to  take,  and  it 
shows  the  spirit  of  old  Portugal  in  these,  her 
rather  decadent  sons.  He  has  no  English 
friends  those  six  thousand  odd  miles  away,  and 
little  money,  but  he  is  prepared  to  adventure 
himself  cheerfully  enough.  Given  an  English 
lad  of  the  same  provincial  upbringing,  and 
would  he  be  willing  to  set  out  alone  for  seven 
years  in  Allahabad  or  Bombay  ?  But  then,  of 
course,  Britain  is  a  promised  land  of  gods  and 
giants  to  this  other. 


THE  GHOST-POOLS  OF  KOMBENI     123 

We  inspected  one  another.  I  was  in  white 
duck  and  laden  with  a  camera  and  stand ;  he 
in  a  sporting  grey  flannel  and  brown  boots,  his 
bicycle  hung  round  with  the  knobbly  packages 
of  our  provisions — his  own  providing.  I  eyed 
them  wistfully  ;  it  was  a  great  adventure  !  Of 
the  two  of  us  he  was,  I  think,  to  suffer  most 
with  regard  to  habiliments.  It  is  true  that 
my  white  duck  was  a  sodden  brownish-black 
mass  when  we  returned,  but  duck  is  cheap  and 
washable.  He  never  wore  his  boots  again,  and 
personally  I  would  have  made  no  offer  for  his 
flannels.  But  we  must  admit  that  luck — or  the 
ghosts— was  against  us. 

This  main  road  very  soon  gives  up  the  effort 
at  respectability  with  which  it  begins,  and  a 
healthy  crop  of  weeds  appeared  among  the 
stones  between  the  two  great  ox-wagon  ruts 
of  the  ordinary  traffic.  But  its  beauty  made 
up  for  all  deficiencies.  Photography  in  the 
tropics  is  a  hopeless  business,  for  every  few 
yards  is  a  picture,  and  yet  one  despairs  of 
selection.  To-day,  for  instance,  there  was  a 
continual  panorama  of  beautiful  corners.  Here 
a  great  mango  hung  over  the  road,  a  dark  rich 
green  for  all  the  bushy  mass  of  it,  the  fruit  at 
this  season  gleaming  high  up  among  its  branches, 


124  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

in  pink  and  yellow ;  there  scented  cloves  ran 
in  vistas  from  the  road  towards  the  blue  of  the 
distant  sea.  We  passed  a  village  with  a  swarm- 
ing market,  its  name,  Kiembe-samaki,  explain- 
ing that  the  big  loads  on  most  men's  heads 
were  piles  of  fish,  and  that  the  great  stacks  of 
fruit  beneath  the  low  roofs  of  cocoa  plaiting 
were  mangoes.  Bananas,  pine-apples,  guavas, 
avocado  pears,  oranges,  lemons,  and  many- 
native  fruits  were  there  besides.  And  an 
unquestionable  odour,  which  must  surely  be 
the  world's  triumph  smell,  testified  that  some 
one  had  bagged  a  shark  very  recently,  and  that 
his  already  deliciously  high  meat  was  the  centre 
of  attraction.  We  spun  through  and  left  the 
town  behind  in  a  turn  of  the  road.  Then  some 
rain  fell,  but  in  a  few  minutes  the  sun  was  out 
again,  and  the  world  lit  by  that  clear  shining 
after  rain,  every  twig  jewelled,  every  flower 
freshly  fragrant,  as  when  God  walked  in  the 
dawn  of  the  world  and  found  it  very  good. 

At  the  eleventh  mile -stone  we  took  to  a 
plantation  path  which  ran  off  at  right  angles 
on  our  left.  It  was  one  of  those  innumerable 
ways,  just  wide  enough  for  one  traveller,  which 
score  Africa  from  the  Atlantic  to  the  Indian 
Ocean.     Here  it  is  like  walking  through  an 


THE  GHOST-POOLS  OF  KOMBENI     125 

enormous  hot-house  with  every  kind  of  tropical 
plant  rioting  to  the  edge  of  the  path.  I  lost 
my  sense  of  direction  in  five  minutes,  and 
Christopher  was  a  genius  to  remember  the  turn- 
ings, since  the  track  forked  at  every  few  hundred 
yards.  It  was  as  varied  as  possible,  but  the 
same  kind  of  variation  is  repeated  again  and 
again,  though  with  change  enough  to  prevent 
one's  being  wearied,  but  certain  to  puzzle  any 
unfortunate  short  of  a  Livingstone  or  the 
'Silver  Wolf  of  the  Boy  Scouts!  For  in- 
stance, at  one  moment  we  were  lost  in  a  banana 
brake,  the  rich  red  blossom  of  each  tree  push- 
ing its  fleshy  tongue  out  of  the  clustering  heart 
of  the  fan-like  leaves,  with  a  trail  of  fruit  on 
the  stalk  behind  it.  The  yellow  fibrous  stems 
are  very  lovely  against  the  dark  of  the  under- 
growth beneath  them  ;  but  each  brake  is  con- 
fusingly like  its  fellows.  And  the  cocoa-nut 
palm  plantations  are  worse.  Here,  like  firs  in 
a  Scottish  forest,  the  great  slim  trunks  rise  to 
the  crown  above  them,  where  the  brown  nuts 
in  their  husks  cluster  at  the  head,  and  a  peculiar 
kind  of  light  green  coarse  cotton-grass  spreads 
in  a  sheet  beneath  them.  In  a  tangle  of  a 
score  of  different  useful  trees  and  bushes  huts 
peep  out  every  few  minutes,  but  all  bee-hives 


126  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

look  much  alike,  except,  I  suppose,  to  the  bees 
which  live  in  them. 

But  one  must  cut  those  three  miles  short. 
Presently  we  were  rimning  downhill  at  im- 
minent risk  of  a  broken  neck,  and  at  last  our 
path  was  too  stony  for  further  riding.  Here, 
however,  a  group  of  bigger  huts  proved  to  be 
inhabited  by  friends  of  Christopher,  and  a 
family  party  of  women  broke  up  to  take  our 
bicycles  and  bring  us  milky  cocoa-nuts  before 
we  pushed  on.  I  tried  to  snap  a  couple  of 
maidens  who,  in  primal  nakedness,  were  splash- 
ing the  water  of  their  bath  at  one  another,  but 
a  white  man  with  a  camera  in  these  byways 
was  too  much  for  the  twelve  years  that  they 
mustered  at  most  between  them,  and  I  was 
not  quick  enough.  A  tall  woman  with  rich 
brown  shoulders  and  arms  that  set  off  a 
splendid  Arab  necklace  of  amber  beads,  dressed 
in  a  shiti  of  brick-red  and  yellow,  proved 
hostess,  but  the  Bwana  mkuhwa  of  the  home- 
stead was  away.  As  the  sun  was  climbing  high 
by  now  we  did  not  stop,  but  plunged  into  the 
small  devious  track  of  our  next  stage. 

In  a  quarter  of  a  mile  the  country  com- 
pletely changed.  It  was  hard  going  over  a 
coral  outcrop  which  cut  one's  boots  to  pieces, 


THE  GHOST-POOLS  OF  KOMBENI     127 

and  the  trees  died  away  to  a  low  scrub  abound- 
ing in  a  small  yellow  flower  which  attracted 
the  bees.  Here  there  was  no  shelter,  and  only 
a  wind,  which  proved  in  the  end  our  un- 
doing, made  the  glare  of  the  sun  tolerable. 
The  birds  had  disappeared,  but  huge  land- 
crabs  abounded.  These  great  brown  creatures, 
with  enormous  front  claws  of  scarlet  and  eyes 
on  towers  that  surveyed  the  world  at  an  undue 
advantage,  reared  themselves  up  against  us 
instead  of  running  away.  We  were  more  or 
less  tolerant  of  them  until  we  came  across  a 
hairy  monster  feeding  on  the  carcass  of  an 
equally  large  hermit  land-crab,  whose  shell 
being  broken  had  fallen  an  easy  prey  to  his 
first  cousin.  Such  unspeakable  cannibalism 
raised  our  ire,  and  we  fell  on  the  victor,  and 
left  his  corpse  as  a  warning  in  the  way.  That 
evening  as  we  returned  the  pair  of  them  were 
one  swarming  ant-heap  of  minute  black  ants, 
so  that  out  of  the  eater  came  forth  meat.  But 
such  beasts  are  a  queer  horror.  One  remembers 
Mr.  Wells's  discovery  in  his  Time-machine  of 
that  solitary  beach  on  the  edge  of  a  dying 
world,  where  like  monsters  ravaged  under  a 
red  ghost  of  the  sun.  I  thought  the  more  of 
it  because,  just  then,  a  black  shadow  plunged 


128  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

our  scrub  into  gloom,  and  we  turned  to  see 
dense  black  clouds  that  the  wind  had  driven 
upon  us  unexpectedly.  We  hurried  forward 
over  the  uneven  ground,  very  conscious  of  our 
camera  and  our  food  and  of  the  absence  of  all 
cover.  The  big  drops  began  to  fall  as  we 
plunged  down  again,  through  a  fringe  of  fern 
now,  to  the  sea.  And  as  we  descended  upon 
the  beach,  from  far  back  in  the  woods  came 
the  sound  of  driving  rain. 

There  was  no  time  to  lose  if  we  wanted 
shelter.  The  sea  lay  far  out,  and  to  right  and 
left,  above  high- water  mark,  ran  a  great  bank 
of  some  aromatic  white-flowered  shrub,  of  the 
aloe  tribe  I  think,  which  afforded  no  shelter  at 
all.  Then,  out  of  the  wet  sand,  pushed  a 
great  fringe  of  mangrove  swamp,  bright  green 
bushy  trees  (but  too  small  to  be  of  use),  with 
extending  roots  of  sharp-pointed  spikes.  But 
to  our  right  the  rocky  arm  of  the  headland 
ran  out  to  sea,  and  we  made  for  it.  It  proved 
to  be  a  high  coral  ridge  with  points  of  needle 
sharpness,  but  with  a  base  which  curved  in 
some  few  feet.  We  ran  on,  scanning  it.  Behind 
us  the  tropical  storm  was  visibly  sweeping  down 
out  of  the  hill,  and  its  forerunners  had  already 
reached  us.     But  Christopher  caught  sight  of 


THE  GHOST-POOLS  OF  KOMBENI    129 

a  deepish  part  of  the  recess ;  we  pushed  in 
camera  and  food ;  then,  lying  flat  on  the 
ground,  we  rolled  in  ourselves.  In  a  few 
seconds  one  great  falling  sheet  of  water  hid  the 
landscape,  but  it  drained  away  from  us,  and 
except  for  the  damp  air  we  were  moderately 
dry.  For  an  hour  we  were  held  prisoners, 
and  by  the  end  of  it  were  reasonably  wet. 
But  at  last  the  downpour  ceased,  and  we  were 
able  to  scramble  out.  Then  I  saw  that  it 
was  almost  worth  the  delay.  Great  white 
herons  were  stalking  on  the  wet  sands ; 
snipe  literally  covered  the  low  mangrove 
trees ;  and  small  canary-yellow  birds,  with 
a  flock  of  green-and-red  parakeets  and  a  host 
of  weaver-birds,  were  praising  the  God  of  the 
storm. 

We  wrung  out  our  coats  and  turned  our  backs 
on  the  shore  by  way  of  a  small  path,  now  a 
torrent,  which  reached  the  beach  by  the  side 
of  the  coral  ridge.  A  hundred  yards  within 
the  bush  we  reached  a  homestead,  where  again 
my  companion  was  known;  and  this  time  a 
polite  Arab  made  us  welcome,  and  finally  called 
an  old  native  from  the  depths  of  a  hut  to  bear 
our  food  and  be  our  guide.  That  was  not, 
however,  until  he  had  done  his  best  to  persuade 


130  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

us  not  to  go.     And  Juma,  the  guide,  seemed 
equally  unwilling. 

For  fully  an  hour  we  passed  through  the  same 
kind  of  scrub  by  which  we  had  come,  only  now 
we  were  continually  ankle- deep  in  water.     Our 
provisions,  hung  round  the  person  of  Juma, 
bobbed  on  in  front ;    I,  busy  with  my  camera 
and  a  dry  handkerchief,  followed  Christopher. 
But  in  a  little  the  conduct  of  the  guide  showed 
us  we  had  reached  the  place.     He  had  stopped 
before  a  rather  thicker  clump  of  bush,  and  was 
energetically  crying  '  Hodi !    Hodi !  '  ^    before 
pushing  the  branches  back  and  descending  a 
steep  path.     We  followed,   and  in  a  minute 
stood  within  the  first  of  the  caves.     Juma  re- 
mained, looking  most  unhappy,  at  its  entrance, 
for  although  no  spirit  voice  had  answered  his 
'  Hodi,'  this,  he  maintained,  was  undoubtedly 
a  place  of  Sheitani.     For  my  part,  I  thought 
the  second  of  the  two  caves,  some  hundred 
yards  from  the  first,  the  more  eerie,  but  both 
are  sufficiently  alike  to  allow  of  but  one  de- 
scription.    In  the   case   of  the   second,   then, 
which    we    visited    alone    immediately    after 
seeing  the  first,  an  enormous  cliff,  caused  by 

^  'Hodi  !'  the  usual  native  'May  I  come  in?'  but  often  similarly 
answered. 


•  ««.*  r    t 

•  ccc  «*«:' 

•  o  c  c  '           ' 

•t  c  c  '  '   ' 


ot   t-  <^  ••»• 


THE  GHOST-POOLS  OF  KOMBENI    131 

what  must  have  been  a  land-sHde,  sloped  inward 
to  a  great  pool  of  water.  One  reached  it  down 
a  slope  thick  with  rich  vegetation,  through 
which  the  gleam  of  steely  water  in  the  distance 
shone  cleanly.  But  this  ceased  at  last  as  the 
rock  surface  was  reached,  and  there  was  still 
a  descent  of  some  few  yards  to  the  water.  A 
gaunt  bare-boled  tree  rose  toweringly  on  the 
edge  of  the  green,  and  thick  tropical  creepers 
hung  down  like  brown  ropes.  The  cliff  sloped 
away  overhead,  obscuring  the  light,  and  at  its 
base  lay  the  water,  a  pool  perhaps  forty  feet 
long  and  a  plunge  broad.  It  was  very  very 
deep,  rapidly  shelving,  and  there  was  something 
sinister,  I  will  confess,  about  its  green-and-blue 
transparency.  Far  down  against  the  base  of 
the  cliff  was  a  large  black  opening,  but  no 
ripple  ruffled  the  surface.  For  all  that,  as  we 
listened,  a  peculiar  sucking  sound,  as  of  giant 
lips,  disturbed  a  silence  only  broken  by  the 
dripping  of  the  late  rains  outside,  for  no  living 
bird  or  beast  seemed  near.  Christopher  was 
clearly  disinclined  to  stay,  but  I  persuaded 
him  to  bathe  with  me.  He  would  not  dive, 
however,  and  I  confess  that  plunging  in  that 
pool  was  one  of  the  most  uncanny  experiences. 
It  was  natural  enough,  but  one  fought  with 


132  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

one's  fears,  and  at  last  determined  on  a  deep 
dive  towards  the  black  hole.  The  green  water 
shot  by,  and  objects  on  the  bottom  loomed  up 
big  and  strange.  Suddenly  the  water  grew 
freezingly  cold,  and  as  my  dive  spent  itself  I 
seemed  to  be  poised,  very  far  from  the  bottom, 
over  a  cavernous  infinity  black  and  chill.  In 
a  kind  of  panic  I  turned  and  struck  up  towards 
the  light,  but  in  turning  saw  on  a  near  slope 
by  the  edge  a  cheap  piece  of  native  pottery.  I 
swam  under  the  water  to  it,  to  rescue  a  perfect 
incense  pot  from  a  mass  of  broken  sherds 
around  it.  It  was  fire-stained,  and  had  been 
recently  used.  We  brought  it  back  to  Juma 
who  had  waited  outside  the  first  cave,  and  his 
fear  confirmed  my  value  of  it  1  He  would  not 
touch  it,  nor  sit  with  us  till  we  had  placed  it  far 
off  him.  I  brought  it  home  with  enormous 
care  on  my  bicycle,  an  object  of  panic  in  all 
our  resting  places,  but  after  surviving  miles  of 
shrub  and  shamha  and  bad  roads  the  Sheitan 
was  too  strong  for  me,  and  it  fell  as  I  turned 
in  at  our  garden  gate.  That  at  least  is  one 
explanation,  though  I  heard  another  and  a 
prettier  one.  But  I  have  the  fragments  anyway. 
Well,  we  returned  to  our  first  cave,  which 
was  a  lesser  affair  altogether,  and  had  a  gentle 


THE  GHOST-POOLS  OF  KOMBENI    133 

dry  slope  to  an  only  moderately  deep  pool  of 
delicious  water.  Here  Juma  was  constrained 
to  make  a  fire  by  the  sight  of  our  food  and  a 
promise  that  he  should  share  it.  And  his 
methods  were  amazing.  Practically  every- 
thing was  damp  ;  but  he  seemed  utterly  indif- 
ferent to  smoke,  and  absolutely  leather-lunged. 
At  last  a  broken  cocoa-nut  shell  got  going,  and 
spluttered  finely  from  the  oil  that  is  in  them, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  we  were  roasting  before 
an  enormous  blaze  while  the  rain  began  again 
outside.  It  was  time  now  to  investigate 
Christopher's  idea  of  provisions.  First  he 
tumbled  out  about  a  dozen  small  Indian  loaves, 
of  which  one  satisfied  me.  Then  he  produced 
two  tins  of  beef-steak  pudding,  for  which  we 
had  one  spoon  and  one  pocket-knife.  Sardines 
we  fished  out  of  their  box  by  the  tail,  taking 
them  whole.  Pears  we  ate  with  our  fingers, 
and  really  the  centre  cavity  must  have  been 
designed  for  some  such  spoonless  arrangement. 
But  finally  a  tin  of  green  peas  rather  beat  us. 
They  seemed  raw,  and  were  rather  trying  cold. 
However,  Juma  came  to  the  rescue,  and  we  put 
the  whole  tin  on  the  fire  as  it  was,  with  the  lid 
raised  a  little.  It  is  distinctly  remarkable,  I 
think,  that  all  three  of  us  are  still  alive. 


134  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

We  made  a  queer  group  round  that  fire,  and 
a  photo  would  have  been  priceless.  Juma,  in 
a  torn  blanket,  sat  crouched  up  in  one  corner, 
putting  away  the  loaves  in  a  fascinating  and 
incomprehensible  way  ;  Christopher,  plastered 
with  sand  and  mud,  but  rather  in  his  element, 
sat  on  a  rock  with  his  face  to  the  ghost-pool 
and  a  tin  of  beef-steak  pudding  on  his  knees  ;  I, 
with  indescribable  clothes,  sucked  a  pipe  at  full 
length  opposite,  and  watched  Juma  finish  my 
pudding.  We  tried  to  make  the  latter  tell  us 
of  the  Sheitan,  but  he  was  singularly  dull.  It 
appeared  that  several  individuals,  when  seized 
with  '  possession  '  in  the  villages  around,  had 
rushed  to  this  pool  to  talk  to  the  spirit,  and 
that  undoubtedly  you  got  rain  if  you  prayed 
and  burned  incense  here.  Juma  who,  like  his 
neighbours,  is  a  pious  Mohammedan,  inter- 
larded this  departure  from  Islam  with  sundry 
repetitions  of  the  Prophet's  name,  and  he  ex- 
tended his  tolerant  modernism  far  enough  to 
be  interested  while  I  told  him  how  Christ  had 
cast  out  devils.  But  the  whole  subject  was 
obviously  out  of  place  with  Sheitani  listening 
round  the  corner. 

So  we  rose  to  go,  to  find  sunlight  outside  and 
the  song  of  birds.     In  the  bay  of  the  white 


3      0,       J       J 


3      J 
J      J 

O      J 


3    >     ao 
•    »  i   '  J 


THE  CLIFF   OF   A  CORAL  ISLAND 


THE  GHOST-POOLS  OP  KOMBENI    135 

herons  the  tide  was  at  its  lowest,  and  we  roamed 
on  to  a  vast  mangrove  swamp  intermixed  with 
sharp  coral  flats  where  edible  crabs  abounded, 
and  through  which  a  slow  river  crept  to  the 
sea.  But  we  waded  it,  and  round  the  corner 
was  a  beach  which  might  have  been  that  upon 
which  Robinson  Crusoe  first  saw  Friday's  foot- 
step. It  lay  ablaze  in  the  hot  sun.  Great 
coral  rocks  rose  sharply  here  and  there  out  of 
the  fine  white  sand,  a  sea  absolutely  trans- 
parent rippled  on  the  shore,  and  solitary  palms 
stood  out  here  and  there  in  lonely  might  against 
the  sky-line.  One  hardly  dared  to  tread  the 
unruffled  sand.  Sea-birds  sailing  on  wide 
wings  down  the  air  screamed  a  welcome,  how- 
ever, and  we  lazed  an  hour  in  the  shade. 

Our  way  back  lay  up  from  that  beach,  and 
we  were  made  welcome  at  a  collection  of  huts 
there  with  real  warmth.  Our  host  was  an  old 
Arab,  whose  Benjamin  was  a  bright  youth 
whom  I  photographed  outside  his  father's  hen- 
house, a  little  miniature  hut  set  on  the  top  of  a 
ladder  to  keep  out  marauders.  Under  a  giant 
bread-fruit  tree  with  a  delicious  shade  they 
placed  stools,  and  then  came  a  succession  of 
dafu  (cocoa-nuts  in  the  milky  stage),  bananas, 
and    mangoes.     We    pulled    out    what    bread 


136  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

Juma  had  left  us,  and  Christopher,  with  admir- 
able nonchalance,  produced  two  pots  of  pre- 
served meat  paste,  so  that  we  made  the  second 
meal  of  the  day  in  high  state.  The  ladies  of 
the  establishment  came  out  to  see,  but  they 
would  come  no  nearer  than  a  huge  pile  of  cocoa- 
nut  husk  which  two  men  with  glistening  skins 
and  loin-cloths  had  been  collecting.  At  last 
the  dying  sun  warned  us  to  be  gone,  the  more 
as  it  set  angrily  in  a  bank  of  clouds.  We  rode 
out  to  the  rough  paths  and  the  land-crabs  in 
growing  dusk  and  a  presentiment ! 

Three  miles  away  the  rain  began,  and  we 
were  drenched  in  as  many  minutes.  How  I 
kept  my  camera  dry  and  my  incense  pot  un- 
broken I  do  not  know,  but  I  did  somehow.  We 
ploughed  up  small  ascents  through  mud  and 
a  miniature  torrent  in  much  the  same  spirit  as 
Hannibal  crossed  the  Alps  ;  but  on  the  road 
it  cleared. 

Then  began  the  chapter  of  possible  accidents 
just  avoided.  A  palm  branch  crashed  down 
just  before  us,  in  the  way  they  have,  three 
miles  out  of  town,  and  the  nearness  of  it 
brought  Christopher  off  his  bicycle.  A  little 
farther  on,  the  road  was  blocked  by  a  fallen 
tree,  and  we  missed  it  by  that  inch  which  sets 


THE  GHOST-POOLS  OF  KOMBENI     137 

one's  heart  uncomfortably  in  one's  mouth. 
And  lastly,  at  the  entrance  of  the  village, 
down  a  slight  slope,  big  gates  were  shut  in  the 
dark  which  I  have  never  known  shut  before, 
and  I  personally  missed  a  bad  smash  only 
because  of  the  happy  African  custom  of  build- 
ing a  gate  with  supporting  posts  but  with  no 
flanking  walls.  As  it  was  I  journeyed  un- 
happily through  some  yards  of  jungle  in  a  way 
that  constituted  a  unique  testimonial  to  the 
make  of  my  bicycle.  And  yet  it  was  a  hundred 
yards  farther  on  that  I  broke  the  pot ! 

The  African  is  humorously  superstitious, 
but  that  night,  while  developing  my  photo- 
graphs, my  boy's  hair  fairly  rose  as  I  told  him 
the  story.  It  was  he  who  read  the  incident 
of  the  breaking  pot  intuitively.  '  Your  angel- 
guardian  broke  it,  Bwana,  and  the  Sheitan  went 
back  to  Kombeni !  '  I  do  not  suppose  that  I 
shall  go  again  to  see. 


XV 

LATIN,    HISTORY,    AND    SCIENCE 

The  wheel  has  turned  again,  and  I  am  in  these 
days  a  secular  schoolmaster  for  the  greater 
part  of  my  time.  At  first  this  seems  a  big 
drop  from  theories  to  facts,  and  I  think  so, 
often,  as  I  pick  my  way  to  the  High  School 
down  a  '  road  '  which  I  would  give  a  good  deal 
to  be  able  to  put  on  paper.  There  is  the  open 
mosque  at  the  corner  with  its  lounging  crowd ; 
the  uneven  stony  way  in  the  bright  sunlight; 
Hindi  shops  and  houses  belching  out  goats  and 
children  and  smells  and  slops  and  refuse  on 
either  side ;  then  a  sad  house  of  women  who 
were  part  of  the  late  Sultan's  harem ;  then  a 
Koran  school,  whose  teacher  always  greets  me 
cheerfully  through  the  bars  of  the  unglazed 
window  with  the  Arabic  Sabalkheri ;  and  then 
the  High  School.  It  towers  up  honestly  and 
solidly  as  a  Norman  keep,  a  great  white  square 
block  of  a  place  with  thirty-one  windows  and  a 
door  in  the  front  alone  !     You  pass  inside  to  a 

138 


A  STREET  IN  THE  CITY 


LATIN,  HISTORY,  AND  SCIENCE   139 

courtyard  open  to  the  sky  and  enclosed  by  a 
cloister  on  which  the  ground-floor  rooms  open. 
There  are  only  two  stories  above,  but  all  is  very 
lofty  and  quite  imposing  in  its  white  massy 
simplicity.  The  stairway  is  winding  and  small, 
but  leads  to  another  big  encircling  cloister  on 
the  first  floor,  out  of  which  the  class-rooms 
open,  the  sunlight  glancing  through  the  white 
pillars  into  the  great  well  of  the  courtyard 
below.  The  final  set  of  rooms  above  offer  a 
view  over  all  the  roofs  of  the  city,  and  it  is 
broken  for  a  wide  space  where  we  sometimes 
take  our  tea  at  the  level  of  the  Cathedral  spire. 
One  looks  down  upon  a  rather  fascinating 
display  of  terraces  and  courtyards,  many  gay 
with  flowers  and  shrubs  and  occasional  trees. 
More,  I  must  confess,  present  an  incredible  mis- 
cellany of  rusty  iron  bird-cages,  old  gutters,  and 
broken  tools,  while  a  house  just  below  me 
displays  with  pride  a  horse-hair  sofa  which 
probably  began  life  in  Soho  or  Bloomsbury 
about  the  mid- Victorian  era.  The  sofa  and  I 
have,  however,  struck  up  quite  a  friendship. 
It  is  always  reminding  me  of  the  one  off  which 
I  used  to  roll  in  my  curate  days.  I  trust  my 
old  landlady  will  never  allow  that  to  be  sent 
on  exile  in  so  dismal  a  fashion,  to  end  its  days 


140  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

in  a  pitiful  complaint  to  a  hostile  tropical  sky- 
as  this  below  me. 

School  begins  at  9  a.m.,  and  mine  is  the  first 
class,  although  I  do  not  do  all  the  first-class 
work  owing  to  a  smaller  division  for  Latin, 
History,  and  Science.  Nothing  is  half  so 
great  as  it  sounds,  because,  of  course,  the  boys 
are  hopelessly  ignorant  to  begin  with,  and  have 
no  kind  of  home  or  outside  influence  to  help 
them  at  all.  I  began,  for  example,  to  teach 
History,  and  have  really  had  some  extraordin- 
arily interesting  classes,  but  I  soon  found  that 
it  was  utterly  hopeless  to  begin  as  one  does 
with  English  boys,  for  these  have  no  idea  of 
chronology,  of  relative  sizes,  or  of  numbers. 
They  know  absolutely  nothing— not  even  the 
recent  facts  of  local  history;  for  instance 
(actually),  that  there  had  ever  been  a  slave- 
market  here !  That  is  so  incredible  to  us,  but 
one  has  to  remember  that  they  never  seem  to 
talk  either  with  old  men  or  among  themselves 
except  on  the  affairs  of  the  moment.  Well,  I 
determined  at  last  to  practise  certain  theories 
of  historical  teaching  which  are  being  put 
forward  tentatively  in  England.  We  started 
to  learn  history  by  beginning  with  now  !  I 
began  by  holding  up  a  rupee  and  asking  whose 


LATIN,  HISTORY,  AND  SCIENCE  141 

was  the  image  and  superscription.  One  bright 
boy  said  Edward  vii.  (explaining,  after  much 
thought,  that  vii.  meant  that  he  was  the  seventh 
King  of  England),  and  I  got  them  puzzled  as 
to  why  Sayyid  Halifa  should  be  Sultan  and 
yet  Edward  or  George  King.  To  explain  the 
protectorate  idea,  I  made  one  boy  stand  for  a 
captain  of  a  German  man-o'-war  threatening 
to  bombard  the  city,  and  myself  played  the 
part  of  the  Consul-General  and  British  Agent 
at  the  subsequent  interview.  So  we  go  on. 
I  have  set  them  looking  for  the  oldest  building 
in  the  town  (it  is  a  Portugicese  fort)  that  they 
may  ask  who  built  it,  and  I  want  to  collect  a 
miscellany  of  postage  stamps,  old  swords,  old 
pictures,  and  such  like,  to  serve  for  object-lessons. 
The  private  classes  are  queer  too.  I  have 
four  enterprising  youths  who  wish  to  learn 
Latin,  hoping  finally  to  graduate  at  Bombay 
or  even  in  England— a  Parsee,  a  Hindi,  a 
Spanish-Eurasian,  and  a  Goanese.  I  have 
great  hopes  of  the  Hindi,  a  good-looking  boy  of 
about  thirteen,  whose  type  of  face  is  very 
European.  It  is,  of  course,  not  really  black 
either.  He  is  very  keen,  and  his  face  is  so 
extraordinarily  sensitive,  with  eyes  that  simply 
glitter,  and  nostrils  that  twitch  with  eagerness 


142  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

now  and  again.  He  is  very  much  of  a  boy,  too, 
much  keener  on  genuine  games  than  most  of 
them,  and  the  most  promising  patrol-leader  I 
have. 

I  took  this  Indian  boy  on  his  bicycle  to 
Mbweni  one  afternoon,  and  got  the  padre  there 
to  show  him  a  drop  of  ditch  water  under  a 
microscope.  It  was  extraordinarily  queer  to 
watch  him.  These  Indians  never  express  their 
feelings  very  openly,  and  he  only  looked  and 
smiled.  But  he  was  much  impressed — and  so 
was  I,  as  always,  as  a  matter  of  fact.  He  was 
shown  that  there  was  positively  '  nothing  '  in 
the  clear  water ;  he  was  allowed  to  see  how 
small  a  drop  was  placed  on  the  glass,  and  how 
it  was  pressed  flat  by  an  upper  glass  in  order 
that  the  ocean  should  not  be  too  deep ;  and 
then  the  focus  was  fixed,  and  he  was  told  to 
look.  By  good  luck  we  had  hit  on  a  rich  drop. 
You  saw  the  dead  body  of  a  great  sea-monster 
a-sprawl  on  the  bed  of  the  sea,  while  an  army 
numbering  many  hundreds  of  swarming  infinit- 
esimal creatures  was  engaged,  in  two  streams,  in 
devouring  the  carcass.  They  ran  up  and  down 
their  lines  with  the  precision  of  our  siafu  ants, 
and  they  swarmed  over  the  body  like  the  ants 
over  a  big  beetle.     And  yet,  without  the  micro- 


TO  ARMS! 


LATIN,  HISTORY,  AND  SCIENCE   143 

scope,  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen  except,  on 
a  second  detailed  examination,  the  tiniest  speck 
of  '  dirt.'  I  do  not  think  that  the  boy  will 
ever  forget  it.  We  bicycled  home  slowly 
together,  while  the  sun  went  down  behind  the 
palms,  along  these  roads  which  are  ribbons  of 
white  through  a  tangle  of  green.  He  asked 
me  if  this  was  all  '  alive  '  too,  and  I  tried  to  let 
him  see  not  only  a  vision  of  this  infinite  world 
and  of  its  yet  more  infinite  Designer,  but  of  the 
Father-hand  which  controls  and  directs  the 
least  of  these. 

That  brings  me  to  the  Boy  Scouts,  which  we 
started  when  school  reopened  after  the  holi- 
days. I  have  a  house  in  the  country  near  the 
sea  all  to  myself,  and  I  have  begun  by  training 
eighteen  boys,  whom  I  hope  to  make  officers  in 
the  six  or  seven  patrols  I  shall  recruit  when  the 
uniforms  come  from  England.  The  whole 
scheme  is,  of  course,  at  present  very  tentative, 
but  it  has  '  caught  on  '  among  the  boys  most 
happily.  It  is  all  very  curious,  because  they 
know  already  the  things  at  which  English  boys 
are  so  slow — I  mean  camping  and  the  actual 
scouting  in  the  bush — and  they  are  utterly  hope- 
less at  a  good  deal  English  boys  are  keen  about. 
Imagine  yourself  trying  to  explain  the  compass 


144  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

to  boys  who  have  no  idea  of  what  you  mean  by 
north,  and  to  whom  the  conception  of  the 
earth  as  a  ball  is  one  of  those  incomprehensible 
European  notions  which  is  obviously  only  true 
in  school,  and  which  is  flatly  denied  by  every- 
body outside.  However,  they  simply  love 
drill,  and  I  believe  they  are  dimly  perceiving 
something  of  the  big  brotherhood  of  the  thing. 
Of  course,  I  have  to  teach  them  most  literally. 
They  are  convinced  that  if  they  landed  in 
England,  the  scouts  of  the  neighbourhood 
would  immediately  welcome  them  as  long-lost 
brothers.     But  more  of  these  later  on. 

Then  we  have  four  times  a  week  a  couple  of 
the  richest  Arabs  in  the  town  coming  here  to  be 
taught.  I  take  English  and  History;  and  I 
like  my  pupils  immensely,  especially  one,  a 
quiet,  gentlemanly  man  of  perhaps  twenty-five 
years,  who  was  at  Mecca  this  year.  We  are 
doing  the  history  of  the  Arab,  Saracen,  and 
Turkish  peoples,  and  the  other  day  were  at  the 
life  of  Mohammed.  I  sketched  it  as  we  know  it 
in  history,  and  then  compared  briefly  the  three 
great  prophets  of  the  Mohammedan  rosary, 
Moses,  Jesus,  and  Mohammed.  I  tried  to  show 
as  gently  as  possible  Mohammed  taking  the 
sword  and  our  Lord  taking  the  Cross.     It  was 


LATIN,  HISTORY,  AND  SCIENCE   145 

all  History,  and  he  did  not  mind  in  the  least. 
And  then,  in  the  middle,  I  was  called  out  to  see 
a  stately  old  gentleman  from  Lamu,  anxious 
to  board  his  two  boys  here  and  to  have  them 
taught.  We  discussed  it  for  a  while,  and  then 
he  said,  '  Of  course,  sir,  you  will  not  teach 
them  Scripture  ?  '  My  colleague  and  I  hesi- 
tated, and  said  we  made  it  a  point  with  boarders, 
as,  by  diocesan  order,  we  are  compelled  to  do. 
Then  I  asked,  '  You  would  wish  them,  how- 
ever, to  be  taught  English,  a  little  History 
perhaps,  a  little  Science  ?  '  *  Oh,  certainly,  sir,' 
he  said,  '  as  much  as  you  please.' 

And  therein,  lies,  of  course,  our  raison  d^etre. 
Here  is  a  young  '  nation,'  that  is  even  not  yet 
a  nation,  literally  discovering  itself.  It  is 
everywhere  asking  for  teachers,  and  it  knows 
that  its  only  hope  lies  in  being  taught.  It  is 
as  yet  inarticulate  and  chaotic,  and  it  often 
does  not  know  its  own  mind;  and  it  is  half 
angry,  half  fearful  too.  We  are  here,  possessed 
of  a  liberty  towards  God  and  Knowledge 
wherein  Christ  has  made  us  free,  and  we  are 
trying  to  help  these  men  and  boys  out  to  our 
freedom.  It  would  be  Christ's  work  if  we 
only  taught  them  the  science  of  earth  and  sky  : 
the  one  is  His  footstool,  the  other  His  throne. 

K 


146  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

But  we  believe  that  as  their  eyes  open  to  these 
things  their  minds  will  open  to  more  besides. 
They  too  will  ask  How  ?  and  Why  ?  and  To 
what  end  ?  and  our  hope  is  that  then  we  shall 
be  the  teachers  to  whom  they  will  turn,  we 
who  confess  that  our  Lord  is  the  Word  of  the 
Father  and  the  Beginning  and  the  End. 


XVI 

ROOFS   IN   THE   SUN 

From  the  elevation  of  our  topmost  story  can 
be  surveyed  the  whole  of  the  little  peninsula 
which  shelters  the  more  distinctly  Indian, 
Arab,  and  European  half  of  the  town.  The 
panorama  is,  I  think,  a  fascinating  one,  even 
if  the  coming  of  '  corrugated  iron '  has  proved 
a  disastrous  invasion  from  the  point  of  the 
picturesque.  Much  remains,  however.  Still, 
wherever  one  looks,  the  green  of  cocoa-nut 
or  casuarina  or  banana  or  mango  stands  out 
among  the  roofs;  still  each  flat  house-top  or 
open  baraza  presents  a  spectacle  of  this  remote 
Eastern  life  ;  and  still  a  sea  of  colour,  that  is 
only  called  Italian  blue  because  East  Africa  is 
less  visited,  hems  us  in.  Glimpses  only  of  the 
water  appear  distantly  on  the  southern  side. 
But  as  our  vantage  point  is  but  a  few  hundred 
yards  from  it  on  the  northern,  one  can  see  its 
roll  and  heave,  catch  the  breath  of  crested 
waves,  and  look  out  to  a  fringe  of  gleaming 

U7 


148  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

white  sand-banks  and  magically  green  islets 
which  sleep  under  the  sun. 

I  do  not  think  the  sea  imprisons.  Round  the 
point  of  Prison  Island,  the  quarantine  station, 
comes  a  white-sailed  dhow,  its  triangular  sail 
bellying  out  in  the  breeze,  and  its  rough-hewn 
but  sharp  prow  cutting  the  blue  sea  into  a  roll 
of  white  foam  till  it  seems  an  incarnation  of  the 
spirit  of  freedom.  At  anchor,  a  couple  of  liners 
are  waiting  for  the  set  of  sun  to  swing  out  of 
the  roadway  for  Europe  or  the  South,  as 
though  they  were  calling  lingerers  to  make  up 
their  minds  and  be  free.  It  is  the  land  that 
imprisons,  and  for  us  the  Gospel  that  chains  us 
here. 

The  roofs  always  suggest  that  a  giant  child 
has  been  at  play,  for  the  sheets  of  grey  metal 
lie  loosely  on  one  another,  to  all  seeming  like 
card  palaces.  Here  and  there  native  cocoa- 
nut  matting  obtrudes,  or  domineering  stone, 
but  for  the  most  part  people  prefer  to  build 
cheaply  and  live  dry.  Then  again,  the  houses 
are  thrown  down  in  an  enormous  tangle,  in 
which,  at  first  sight,  it  is  not  possible  to  detect 
a  plan.  But  one  can  peer  over  the  edge  of  our 
high  unbroken  walls  into  one  of  the  city's  ways, 
which  looks  from  here  like  a  deep  and  narrow 


ROOFS  IN  THE  SUN  149 

gutter  alive  with  swarming  pygmies.  Strain- 
ing, sweating,  half-naked  Swahili  porters  ;  busy 
Banyan  shopkeepers ;  Goans,  pseudo-European ; 
now  and  again  an  Arab  who  has  kept  his  leisure 
alone  of  all  the  possessions  that  were  his  ;  such 
is  the  motley  crowd.  But  above  are  the  people 
of  the  roofs,  and  chiefly  Indian  women.  Ours 
are  the  lower  caste  people  from  the  Bombay 
districts,  but  for  my  part  I  have  a  great 
admiration  for  them. 

Their  dress  is  one  of  the  most  graceful:  a 
loose  wide  skirt,  usually  brick-red  for  the  rough 
work  of  the  house,  and  a  long  graceful  cloth 
wound  about  the  shoulders  and  brought  up  to 
cover  the  head  and  hang  behind,  these  are  the 
principal  portions.  But  as  the  wearer  works 
the  wind  blows  both  about.  Then  one  sees  the 
queer  tight  little  bodice  enclosing  the  breasts 
before  and  tied  with  strings  behind.  It  fulfils 
all  decencies,  and  where  it  fails  the  Tropics 
and  the  East  are  agreeably  emphasised  !  She 
is  a  domestic  little  woman,  too.  In  the  sun 
below  gapes  the  well-like  courtyard  of  a  big 
Indian  menage  enclosed  on  all  four  sides  by 
rooms  opening  into  wide  verandahs  and  topped 
by  a  space  of  cement  flooring,  and  here  she  is 
constantly  appearing.     One  is  washing,  econo- 


150  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

mising  water  from  a  big  gleaming  copper  vessel 
by  her,  and  beating  the  dirty  clothes  vigorously 
with  a  short  baton,  which  is  poised  above  her 
for  the  second  stroke  before  the  thud  of  the 
first  reaches  me.  Two  more  are  spreading  pink 
and  yellow  and  blue  and  orange  garments  on 
the  roofing.  Another  is  mothering  a  baby 
while  she  croons  some  Gujerati  song.  And  yet 
another  is  grinding  grain  in  a  circular  stone 
mill  as  well  as  she  can  with  half  a  dozen  brats 
about  her.  Of  course,  there  are  disabilities. 
If  I  were  nearer  I  should  find  that  cleanliness 
makes  a  poor  second  to  godliness  here,  and 
that  my  Indian  damsel  can  spit  like  a  Spanish 
sacristan.  But  she  is  a  real  mother  for  all  that, 
and  motherhood  covers  a  multitude  of  sins. 

Between  us  and  the  sea  is  a  suggestive  line 
of  roofs.  First,  very  cool  in  the  glare,  is  the 
round  crenellated  low  tower  (whose  white  walls 
shine  through  climbing  fig  trees)  of  the  old 
Portuguese  fort  which  became  a  prison  when 
the  conquering  Arab  taught  new  deaths  to  the 
countrymen  of  Vasco  da  Gama.  Eye-witnesses 
have  told  me  of  later  executions,  and  here  too 
they  used  to  bundle  slaves  before  exposure  in 
the  market.  For  all  its  cool  white  and  green, 
it  is  red  with  hate  and  lust  and  blood.     But 


INDIAN   CHILDREN 


ROOFS  IN  THE  SUN  151 

its  day  is  over,  and  a  stone's  throw  away  is 
the  tall  garish  palace  of  the  later  sultans.  The 
present  building  has  succeeded  to  that  which 
Admiral  Rawson  knocked  to  pieces  on  the 
stroke  of  nine  that  day  of  the  bombardment 
in  1896.  They  said  that  Christian  cannon-balls 
turned  to  water  when  fired  at  Moslem  walls, 
and  no  one  dreamt  that  any  punctuality  would 
be  observed  in  so  delicate  a  business ;  but 
the  first  shell  dropped  into  Khalifa's  council 
chamber  when  the  Admiral  said  it  would,  and 
something  went  wrong  with  the  conjuring ! 
Well,  the  rooms  are  Government  offices  to-day, 
and  the  Sultan  has  come  down  to  the  next  roof, 
of  which  I  can  see  little  save  the  red  flag  on  the 
flag-staff  above  it.  This  old  Arab  house,  once 
the  harem,  dreams  in  a  garden  of  palms,  with 
the  palace  square  before  it,  of  the  glory  that 
has  departed  from  its  princes.  But  I  have  no 
doubt  which  of  the  three  I  should  prefer,  or 
which  regime  thus  symbolised  is  best  for  the 
clustering  roofs  around. 

Only  three  spires  and  not  a  single  minaret 
pierce  our  sky.  Two  are  twins,  and  of  a  pleas- 
ing and  not  inartistic  grey  stone.  Between 
them,  rising  from  the  coiu-tyard  of  the  presby- 
tery, is  visible  a  date  palm  planted  fifty  years 


152  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

ago  by  the  aged  Catholic  priest  who  has  given 
his  Hfe  to  the  work  of  the  Church  among  the 
Goans  here.  The  other  is  thinner  and  more 
distant,  nearer,  too,  that  background  of  the 
far-stretching  woods  which  hems  us  in  on  the 
one  side  that  the  sea  has  not  left  free.  Another 
faithful  servant  is  kept  in  memory  so.  But 
how  different  looked  this  city  to  Charles 
Edward  Steere  !  Yet  not  so  different  after 
all,  for  his  eyes  were  on  the  same  need  and  the 
same  Lord. 

Ah  !  that  need  !  it  can  be  seen,  too,  from  the 
roofs.  Across  our  scrap  of  garden— which  yet 
boasts  three  cocoa-nuts,  one  date  palm,  and  a 
fig  tree  ! — is  a  queer  hemmed-in  house  con- 
nected with  a  big  place  in  the  street  by  a  narrow 
passage.  The  front  is  towards  us,  and  is  sug- 
gestive of  a  building  from  which  one  side  has 
been  stripped,  because  the  big  open  verandahs 
are  like  rooms,  and  more  used  than  most.  Here 
a  number  of  Swahili  women,  dark-skinned, 
noisy,  and  curiously  African  as  opposed  to 
their  Indian  neighbours,  are  herded  together. 
That  is  the  only  way  to  put  it,  for  these  are 
victims  of  that  system  of  concubinage  for  which 
Mohammed  dared  claim  the  approval  of  God, 
but  which,  more  unmistakably  than  anything 


ROOFS  IN  THE  SUN  153 

else,  has  the  approval  of  the  devil.  They,  too, 
seem  busy  in  their  rather  lazy  way,  plaiting 
fibrous  baskets,  cooking,  hair  -  dressing,  and 
dancing  at  night  in  full  view  of  the  roof- world. 
There  are  children  there,  although  the  Swahili 
children  are  few  compared  with  the  Indian. 
They  play  about  merrily  enough,  but  one 
wonders  sadly  at  thought  of  their  future.  The 
little  girls  must  grow  up  to  damning  instincts 
in  a  house  such  as  this,  and  the  boys  will, 
normally,  learn  to  think  of  them  in  a  way  that 
ruins  marriage  and  makes  motherhood  a  bitter 
thing. 

Through  the  hot  sun  from  the  beach  came 
sailing  a  score  of  hideous  carrion  crows.  Their 
shadows  streak  the  roofs  and  stain  the  air.  It 
seems  somehow  a  parable  of  many  things. 


XVII 

AMOS   IN   AFRICA 

His  day  and  mine  are  both  nearly  over  when 
we  meet  in  the  big  High  School,  which  rises 
four-square  from  the  huddled  roofs  of  the 
Indian  houses  and  the  crooked  ways  of  an 
Arab  city  only  a  few  hundred  yards  from  the 
still  sea.  The  room  in  which  we  meet  rather 
captures  the  imagination.  The  general  builder 
aimed  at  a  solid  and  massy  grandeur,  and  all 
his  rooms,  grouped  round  a  central  courtyard, 
are  lofty  in  height  and  thick  in  wall-space ;  but 
this  one  is  small  in  size,  and  the  more  curious. 
Its  height  must  be  easily  three  times  its  breadth 
and  twice  its  length.  Its  floor  is  of  concrete 
and  stone.  Its  walls  are  whitewashed,  and 
their  towering  simplicity  is  only  relieved  by 
curious  bulbous-shaped  niches  in  two  tiers,  for 
I  have  not  a  picture  to  set  between  them.  The 
table  is  unfurnished  deal,  the  windows  are 
unglazed,  with  wooden  shutters.  But  a  row 
of  books  companion  the  wall  behind,  and  a 

164 


AMOS  IN  AFRICA  155 

hanging  star  of  electric  light  falls  from  the 
gloom  above  us. 

Outside  the  incessant  daily  noise  of  a  company 
of  copper-smiths,  who  beat  on  the  cold  metal 
seemingly  indifferent  to  the  din  or  fatigue,  is 
for  a  while  stilled.  The  flat  cement  roof  of  the 
long  row  of  houses  in  which  they  live  is  on  a 
level  with  our  windows,  and  as  I  glance  out  I 
see  in  the  moonlight  a  woman  crooning  to  her 
baby,  where  a  leafy  mango  spreads  boughs 
over  the  flat.  The  white  light  gleams  on  her 
heavy  silver  anklets  as  she  moves.  Below,  the 
yellowish  body  of  a  Banyan  workman  sprawls 
on  a  native  bed  in  the  lamplight.  From  far 
away — of  all  sounds  ! — come  the  jarring  notes 
of  a  gramophone,  and  from  the  street  below, 
now  the  clatter  of  sandals,  now  a  hasty  sentence. 

Mwalimu  ^  and  I  are  reading  an  older  record 
than  any  of  these.  One  ought  always,  I  sup- 
pose, to  avoid  undue  sentiment,  but  I  cannot 
get  away  from  the  strangeness  of  this  experi- 
ence. We  are  reading  Amos  these  nights,  and 
it  is  as  if  the  strange  crying  figure  of  the  rude 
herdsman,  whose  words  burn  and  tingle  as 
when  Azariah,  priest  of  Bethel,  was  first  stirred 
by  them,  were  with  us  once  again.     He  comes 

*  Swahili,  'the  teacher.' 


156  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

out  of  the  night,  and  he  goes  into  the  night, 
the  night  of  immemorial  years,  whose  antiquity- 
engulfs  and  annihilates  the  differences  between 
us  two.  That  the  African,  the  product  of 
fifty  years'  Christianity,  and  that  I  the  English- 
man, the  product  of  near  fifteen  hundred, 
should  meet  here,  is  to  me  a  marvel.  Yet  we 
are  both  young  alike  by  Amos  ;  we  are  both 
born  of  That  of  which  the  prophets  cried  out  of 
the  distant  past ;  and  we  have  both  come  up 
on  Gentile  feet  to  the  City  of  Zion  to  find  that 
now  there  is  neither  Jew  nor  Gentile  there. 
And  we  are  both  alike  students  ;  we  both  feel 
the  kindling  hand  of  her  who  is  '  radiant  and 
fadeth  not  away ' ;  and  we  both  look  up  at  each 
other  across  the  table  with  the  vision  of  Israel's 
doom  gripping  at  our  hearts  and  the  cry  of 
jealous  Jehovah  in  our  ears. 

There  is  nothing  the  least  unusual  really 
about  it  all,  but  this  Bible  study  together  of 
the  white  padre  and  the  black  evangelist  is  new 
to  me.  He  sits  opposite  to  me,  with  his  white 
shirt  open  a  little  at  his  brown  throat ;  and  my 
eyes  take  in  all  the  while  the  unquestionable 
wool  and  the  thickened  lips  that  were  known 
first  to  Europe  when  Europe  first  knew  slaves. 
A  jumble  of  thoughts  makes  an  undercurrent 


AMOS  IN  AFRICA  157 

to  my  own  study.  '  This  is  really  Africa ! 
Your  father  was  a  slave  !  we,  who  are  so 
different,  have  come  from  the  ends  of  the 
world  to  meet  here ! '  .  .  .  His  own  eyes  speak 
for  the  man,  and  I  do  not  think,  '  Are  converts 
a  failure  ?  '  but,  '  Thank  God  for  this  !  '  He 
knows  his  Bible,  too,  so  well.  I  remember  how 
at  first  I  rubbed  up  dusty  Cambridge  notes 
that  I  might  give  Jehu's  dynasty  its  proper 
setting,  but  I  found  Jeroboam  ii.  was  no  be- 
wilderment to  him,  nor  the  battle  of  Beth- 
Shemesh!  Last  week  he  had  found  me  the 
reference  to  Jehovah's  hook  in  Assyria's  nose 
before  I  had  done  with  the  sculptures  of  Lachish, 
and  I  think  he  lives  in  the  New  Testament. 

He  is  a  poor  hand  at  taking  notes,  and  some- 
times finds  it  hard  to  keep  awake  if  I  make  him 
write  down  much.  Nor  do  I  wonder.  His 
daily  round  is  a  long  and  tiring  one,  and  the 
teaching  trivial  and  elementary  too.  Once  I 
went  round  after  him  to  see  what  was  going 
forward,  and  the  details  of  it  are  printed  in  my 
memory.  We  left  the  city  by  the  white  riband 
of  the  North  Road,  and  where  a  cluster  of  dark 
mangoes  at  a  break  in  the  way  shelters  a  small 
settlement  of  Wanyiemezi,  he  finds  his  first 
scholars — a  few  savage-looking  creatures,  who 


158  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

ran  out  to  us  in  the  road  eagerly  enough,  how- 
ever.    A  mile  farther  on — where  a  century  ago 
the  body  of  a  holy  man  was  washed  ashore, 
and  now  fluttering  rags  and  broken  eggs  at  his 
tomb  tell  that  human  nature  is  too  strong  for 
even  Mohammed's  prohibition  of  saint-worship 
— is  a  second  group  of  hearers,   of  whom  I 
remember  one,  an  old  and  wrinkled  woman, 
whom  it  must  be  near  impossible  to  teach.     At 
the  next  village  he  must  daily  leave  the  road 
and  make  his  way  to  the  sea,  to  find  a  little 
school  of  boys  awaiting  him  at  a  beautiful  and 
mysterious  place.     A  tiny  spring  bubbles  up 
among  graceful  reeds  and  big  water-weeds  on 
which  crimson  dragon-flies  sun  themselves,  in 
a  square-cut  basin  of  moss-covered  stone  under 
the  shade  of  a  great  Arab  mosque  many  cen- 
turies  old,   whose   spike-topped  dome  lifts  a 
small    crescent    against    the    blue.     After   his 
midday  meal  (for  he  is  early  away)  he  leaves 
the  road  at  a  right  angle  on  the  right.     The 
path  runs  more  or  less  uphill  for  a  couple  of 
miles,  through  hedgeless  plantations  of  cocoa- 
nut  and  clove,  banana  and  orange  and  lemon 
and  lime,  until  it  drops  to  a  scattered  village 
on  the  hillside  with  a  dead  white  baobab  tree  as 
the  preaching  centre.     From  the  village  a  long 


AMOS  IN  AFRICA  159 

ridge  runs  half  across  the  island.  On  it  are 
huts  here  and  there,  and  at  one  place  a  Christian 
has  gathered  a  handful  to  be  taught  by  the 
Mwalimu  on  his  way  back  to  town.  All  the 
way  entrancing  vistas  open  out  through  the 
clove  lines  and  across  the  palm  tops  to  the 
distant  sea,  which  lies  in  an  unruflBed  stretch  of 
blue  for  the  greater  part  of  the  year.  But  the 
teacher  must  be  too  tired  to  notice  all  this, 
even  if  he  cared  very  much  for  what  has  been 
familiar  to  him  since  his  boyhood.  Instead 
he  trudges  wearily,  as  the  light  swiftly  fades 
and  the  stars  leap  out,  to  town  for  a  meal,  a 
night  class  or  even  two,  and  then  our  study. 

I  never  realised  how  much  it  was  all  upon  his 
heart  until,  at  the  close  of  our  first  '  Bible 
class  of  one,'  I  asked  him  to  pray  after  me. 
He  speaks  English  admirably,  but  he  consented 
on  the  condition  that  he  used  '  his  own  words  '  : 
meaning  his  own  Swahili.  So  I  prayed  first, 
and  then  he.  In  this  wonderful  land  it  seems 
to  me  that  one  is  meeting  every  day  little 
microscopic  incidents  that  must  leave  an  in- 
delible memory,  but  this  is  certainly  one  of  the 
most  real  of  such  to  me.  I  had  only  heard  a 
man  pray  extempore  in  Swahili  once  before, 
but  then  even  he  was  not  an  African.     And 


160  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

now  this  native  teacher,  tired  with  a  long  and 
(as  one  knows  so  well  from  one's  own  English 
experience)  dull  day's  ministry,  bent  himself 
over  his  chair,  and  prayed  in  the  soft  vowelled 
tongue.  What  struck  me  most— and  I  do  not 
think  it  is  exaggeration  to  dwell  on  it— was 
the  confident  ring  of  the  quiet  voice,  for  quietly 
he  prayed,  and  steadily,  as  a  son  grown  in  years 
might  talk  to  his  mother.  He  was  so  reverent, 
too :  '  Holy,  Holy  Father,  Holy  Lord  God,'  he 
began.  I  could  not  follow  it  all,  but  presently 
I  caught  the  Bishop's  name,  who  was  absent 
visiting  Christians  on  the  mainland.  And  then 
came  more  names,  the  names  of  the  villages 
of  his  round,  and  with  them  sometimes  '  the 
children,'  '  the  old  men,'  '  that  sick  man,'  and 
again  '  the  little  children.'  I  bowed  my  own 
head  in  my  hands,  and  the  breath  caught  in  my 
throat.  And  why  not  ?  Moses  lifted  hands  like 
this  African's  to  God,  and  it  cannot  have  been 
so  very  differently  that  the  great  missionary 
Apostle  prayed  as  he  remembered  the  scattered 
congregations  of  his  planting  in  unevangelised 
Europe.  And  now  the  Gospel  had  come  to 
East  Africa  too.  And  once  again  God  seemed 
to  have  found  Him  a  true  prophet  in  him  I 
was  privileged  to  kneel  beside. 


AMOS  IN  AFRICA  161 

The  words  rang  to  their  finish  in  the  old 
orthodox  worship  that  has  been  offered  by 
how  many  Ups  in  how  many  tongues  and 
places  !— *  Who  livest  and  reignest  with  the 
Father  and  the  Holy  Ghost,  ever  one  God,  unto 
the  ages  of  the  ages.  Amen  ' — and  quiet  fell 
between  us.  I  hardly  cared  to  break  it.  There 
are  times  when  the  hush  of  listening  heaven 
seems  to  fall  on  earth,  and  when  the  Presence 
of  Him  who  is  content  to  come  for  two  or  three 
seems  apprehensible  by  sense.  The  minutes 
fiy  while  God  makes  good  His  eternal  promise, 
and,  while  men  are  yet  speaking,  hears.  But 
at  last  my  own  lips  moved  in  a  prayer  whose 
first  words  are  so  universal  that  they  need  no 
translation.  '  Baha  yetu,^  ^  we  prayed,  and  as 
is  our  old  custom,  we  remembered  the  Cross 
which  eternally  vindicates  that  title  as  we  said 
the  Grace.  When  the  Faith  was  young  in 
Europe  too,  men  loved  to  sign  themselves  as 
we  do. 

So  we  part,  he  to  his  home  in  the  city,  I  to 
where  the  Cathedral  enclosure  keeps  watch  by 
the  banks  of  the  creek  between  the  huddled 
huts  of  Africa  proper  across  it  and  the  Eastern 
city  on  this  side.     It  is  a  strange  walk  home. 

1  Swahili,  'Our  Father.' 
L 


162  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

I  pass  five  mosques  in  fewer  minutes,  and  in 
one  late  worshippers  are  at  prayer,  bowing, 
prostrating,  gesticulating  before  the  bare  niche 
Mecca-wards,  eloquent  of  the  power  of  the 
Prophet.  Here,  in  the  doorway  of  his  house, 
sits  an  ancient  father  with  shaven  head  and 
wrinkled  face,  muttering  over  the  leaves  of  the 
leather-bound  Koran  on  his  knees,  which  he 
reads  by  yellow  lamp-light.  There,  a  sudden 
glare  of  light  on  the  uneven  narrow  dirty 
stony  way  comes  from  a  Banyan  house,  whose 
owner,  with  parchment-skinned  body  bare  to 
the  waist,  half  sits,  half  lies  on  a  mattress  and 
a  red  leather  cushion,  with  his  big  account- 
book  still  open  before  him.  Where  the  street 
narrows  because  of  projecting  ledges  of  stone,  a 
little  row  of  figures  half  wrapped  in  thin  cotton 
clothes  lie  asleep.  They  are  utterly  still  in  a 
score  of  queer  twisted  shapes,  and  might  as 
well,  one  thinks,  be  dead.  Just  at  the  corner, 
in  the  open,  with  the  clear  stars  above  him,  a 
white-turbaned  Arab  sits  with  a  bubbling 
hookah  glowing  red  at  his  side.  An  askari,  in 
smart  uniform,  salutes  me  as  I  turn  in  by 
Indian  houses  where  the  shrill  crying  of  a 
child  is  harsh  on  the  night  air.  And  one 
marvels  at  it  all,  for  every  sight  and  sound  is 


AMOS  IN  AFRICA  163 

the  symbol  of  some  phase  of  this  old  Eastern 
world,  of  this  new  Western  life.  .  .  . 

But  I  cannot  help  it ;  I  go  exultant  to  my 
room.  I  must  be  away  on  my  bicycle  in  a 
moment  to  a  village  for  to-morrow's  Breaking 
of  the  Bread,  and  shall  run  swiftly  through  the 
insect-haunted  shambas  and  under  the  great 
grave  palms.  And  as  I  go  I  shall  tell  myself 
with  every  push  of  the  pedals  that  the  victory 
lies  with  us ;  that  in  the  feebleness  and  ignor- 
ance of  that  upper  room  is  hid,  nevertheless, 
the  great  dynamic;  and  that  Mwalimu  and 
I  are  among  that  incredible  company  who  turn 
the  world  upside  down,  and  are  ever  amazed 
when  it  is  done. 


XVIII 

SCOUTS,  BLACK  AND  BROWN 

There  is  something  overwhelmingly  superior 
about  South  African  clergy !  To-day  the 
English  mail  brought  us  one  who  discovered 
me  in  an  old  green  shirt,  a  pair  of  khaki  riding 
breeches  a  little  soiled,  and  what  had  once  been 
boots.  He  was  courteous,  but,  over  our  pipes, 
firm.  It  was  a  pity  to  scout  thus  with  the 
natives.  Now  I  wonder ;  and  I  propose  to 
submit  the  question.  Picture  me  sitting  in  a 
broken  embrasure  at  the  top  of  a  flight  of  ruined 
steps  which  was  once  the  splendid  entrance  to 
that  great  palace  of  His  Highness  Sultan  Sayyid 
Said.  In  front  a  big  mango  shaded  my  view 
of  the  sea,  still  and  blue  and  just  breaking  in 
clean  little  wavelets  on  white  sand  which 
gleamed  and  sparkled  in  the  sun  ;  while  a  little 
to  the  left,  against  a  thick  impenetrable  back- 
ground of  undergrowth  and  palms,  there 
clustered  picturesquely  a  white  mosque,  the  old 
temple-keeper's  house,  and  a  deep  clear  well. 
Behind  lay  the  ruined  palace.     It  is  quite  pos- 

164 


SCOUTS,  BLACK  AND  BROWN     165 

sible  to  trace  the  plan  of  it  even  now — the 
cloistered  centre  courtyard  with  a  well,  alabaster 
rimmed,  in  the  centre  ;  the  spacious  rooms  to 
right  and  left ;  the  winding  stairs  to  small  bed- 
rooms above  ;  the  second  courtyard,  with  the 
marble  basins  for  bathing  across  it  and  the 
women's  apartments  beyond.  But  time  plays 
havoc  quickly  here.  It  was  built  in  ^56,  and 
now  thick  trees  have  reft  the  cloisters,  luxurious 
creepers  and  ferns  riot  in  the  baths,  snakes 
have  housed  for  years  in  the  broken  corners  of 
the  stairs,  and  bees  hang  in  undisputed  owner- 
ship above  the  entrance  to  the  big  dining-hall. 
A  third  of  a  mile  away,  across  a  little  river, 
the  wall  of  another  palace  passes  some  hundred 
yards  from  the  farther  bank  of  the  stream. 
Between  the  two  palaces  lies  a  varied  stretch 
of  mangrove  swamp,  wide  sands,  tangled  under- 
growth, and  a  small  village  of  brown  huts,  with 
its  usual  surrounding  belt  of  cultivated  but 
unhedged  plots.  It  is  altogether  ideal  scout- 
ing country.  So  we  had  come  in  the  early 
morning,  while  the  sun  was  still  low  and  the 
sea  pearl-grey  beyond  the  town,  and  we  had 
marched  through  swamp  and  sand  and  green- 
wood until  we  reached  the  river  and  the  wall. 
There  I  left  a  big  patrol  whose  totem  is  the 


166  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

*  Lion '— Swahili  boys  all,  with  a  touch  of  Arab 
blood  in  them—while  I  pushed  on  with  the  other 
four.  These  I  set  round  the  palace,  but  a  good 
two  hundred  yards  from  it.  The  '  Wood- 
pigeon  '  (Indian)  patrol  covered  the  sea- front, 
the  '  Rook  '  (Greek-cum-Eurasian-cum-Parsee- 
cum-Goan  !)  held  the  rear,  the  '  Rattle-snake  ' 
(more  Arab  than  Swahili)  watched  the  village, 
and  the  '  Bull '  (Swahili)  lay  on  the  road  on  our 
left  front.  All  five  patrols  made  fires  and 
camped,  but  the  guarding  four  threw  out  a 
fringe  of  sentries.  And  through  the  sentries 
the  boys  of  No.  1  across  the  river  had  to  com- 
municate with  me,  a  prisoner  in  the  palace. 
It  is  good  fun  being  a  prisoner  because,  when 
the  sun  is  strong  enough  to  skin  you,  all  you 
have  to  do  is  to  lie  on  your  back  and  watch  the 
lizards  ;  but  I  had  to  be  commander  of  my 
guards  as  well.  I  made  rounds  at  odd  times 
and  inspected  the  sentries,  who,  on  the  whole, 
were  admirable.  But  I  always  managed  to  be 
back  in  prison  to  get  my  letters.  The  first 
came  triumphantly  and  unseen  by  way  of  the 
sea,  and  its  bearer  slipped  out  through  the 
palace  into  the  long  grass  by  the  village.  The 
'  Rattle-snakes  '  got  him,  though,  on  his  return, 
and  not  until  one  came  and  went  successfully 


SCOUTS,  BLACK  AND  BROWN     167 

through  the  very  Une  of  the  '  Rooks '  did  I 
send  the  outside  world  news  of  my  hapless  lot ! 
We  do  not  entirely  live  '  on  the  country  '  on 
these  occasions,  but  we  very  nearly  do  so.  Each 
boy  stuffs  a  penny  loaf  into  his  haversack  before 
starting,  and  each  patrol  has  a  ration  of  tea  and 
sugar  and  a  tin  of  preserved  milk.  That  and 
fruit  is  a  royal  feast.  Fruit,  too,  is  so  cheap. 
Our  '  almighty  '  coin  here  is  the  pice,  not  much 
smaller  than  the  penny  and  worth  a  farthing. 
For  it  one  can  buy  a  mango  as  big  as  a  small 
melon  and  a  meal  in  itself,  or  five  or  six  bananas, 
or  a  handful  of  limes,  or  several  huge  oranges, 
and,  for  three  pice  or  less,  a  pine-apple.  Even 
so  forty  boys  do  not  require  forty  pice,  for  the 
old  women  who  sit  by  the  road  and  sell,  lose 
their  heads  at  the  sight  of  so  much  wealth  if 
you  pour  twenty  pice  into  their  hands,  and  set 
their  stock  against  it.  The  boys  sometimes 
bring  their  own  delicacies  too,  and  then  I  share 
them.  Oh  !  I  have  learned  a  great  deal  with 
my  scouts.  I  know  exactly  what  that  '  grand- 
father of  all  the  jumbles  '  (which  I  have  written 
about)  tastes  like  now;  I  have  eaten  Indian 
brown  sweetmeats  which  come  out  of  dens 
entirely  indescribable  ;  I  have  filled  my  pocket 
first  and  myself  afterwards  with  nuts  retailed 


168  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

from  the  baskets  of  ancient  crones  looking  more 
like  big  monkeys  than  old  ladies ;  and — supreme 
triumph  ! — I  have  shared  a  tin  of  sardines  with 
a  patrol,  and  landed  my  fish  as  delicately  as 
any  one,  by  the  tail !  I  have  not,  it  is  true, 
eaten  dried  shark,  and  I  hope  I  shall  not  be 
asked  to  do  so,  because  one  must  draw  the  line 
somewhere.  Finessi  (a  big  native  fruit  from 
which  one-pice  slices  are  cut  with  a  universal 
knife)  is  better,  though  you  can  smell  it  a  good 
few  yards  away,  but  shark  is  unbelievable. 
Nothing  that  I  ever  smelt  in  England  has  the 
least  chance  of  competition. 

Round  the  camp  fire  we  have  good  talks. 
At  Mtoni,  for  instance,  the  enemies'  corporal, 
one  of  the  j  oiliest  of  boys  and  really  black  and 
African,  asked  if  I  was  not  afraid  to  be  in  the 
palace.  I  asked  why  I  ought  to  be,  and  he 
told  me  there  were  many  evil  ghosts  there.  I 
instantly  improved  the  shining  hour  and  re- 
minded him  that,  though  not  at  the  moment 
very  apparently  one,  I  was,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
a  Christian  priest,  and  was  consequently 
stronger  than  such  Sheitani.  Much  interested, 
he  launched  into  a  long  account  of  two  friends 
of  his  who  had  met  spirits  on  the  march  and 
suffered  in  consequence.     I  lost  the  drift  of 


COCOA-NUT  WOODS 


SCOUTS,  BLACK  AND  BROWN     169 

his  Swahili  in  a  very  little,  but  that  does  not 
matter ;  all  the  stories  are  the  same ;  one 
listens  politely.  Then  a  boy  told  me  another 
—in  Gujerati.  (I  do  not  know  a  word  of 
Gujerati.)  Then  I  told  them  one— the  Gada- 
rene  demoniac.  An  Indian  who  knows  English 
put  it  into  Gujerati,  and  Kanji  asked  the  name 
of  the  great  Mwalimu.  I  told  him  His  Name. 
.  .  .  Then  I  think  we  talked  about  snakes,  for 
religion  is  only  unnatural  in  the  West. 

My  two  scout  masters  are  Christian  teachers, 
and  as  we  tramp  along  we  grow  great  friends. 
They  both  speak  splendid  English  and  are  out- 
wardly civilised  enough  ;  but  what  amazes  me 
is  the  real  man  below  still.  Marching  home 
from  Mtoni,  one  told  me  of  his  Mohammedan 
relations  at  home  ;  of  the  big  cave  where  they 
sacrifice  for  rain  ('  And  it  does  come,  padre  !  ') ; 
of  their  lingering  remembrance  of  one  of  our 
missionaries  who,  thirty  years  ago,  stayed  a 
fortnight  on  his  way  to  the  then  new  Msalabani ; 
and,  rather  strikingly,  that  the  heathen  say  the 
native  Christians  must  be  liars  since  they  pretend 
to  meet  a  person  many  years  dead  in  their 
churches.  This  man  has  a  Mohammedan  uncle 
across  the  creek,  an  old  man  of  the  old  school, 
who  objects  (wise  man !)  to  the  wearing  of 


170  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

European  dress,  and  who  believes  confidently 
that  he  shall  yet  depart  in  peace  having  seen 
every  European  throat  cut  in  the  island.  So 
as  we  march  along  they  tell  me,  incidentally, 
how  they  live,  and  in  what  strange  primitive 
current  runs  their  thoughts. 

But  what  is  especially  pleasing  is  the  way 
in  which  the  boys  take  to  the  Scout  Law. 
Imagine  a  line  of  Mohammedan  boys  reciting 
with  Christians  that  they  must  fear  God  and 
honour  the  King  and  the  Sultan,  I  explaining 
to  all  that  we  have  one  God  and  that  our  Lord 
is  the  manifestation  of  God  to  the  Christian ; 
or  else  promising  to  be  '  pure  in  thought,  word, 
and  deed  ' ;  or  to  be  '  little  brethren  of  all  the 
world.'  They  mean  it,  too  ;  I  make  the  patrol- 
leaders  explain.  What  I  hope  for  particularly 
is  the  chance  of  a  camp  in  June  or  July,  and  for 
a  fortnight  given  up  to  them  with  its  common 
daily  prayers,  camp-fire  yarns,  and  sense  of 
good  comradeship.  In  all  this  I  have  said 
nothing  of  discipline,  and  of  work  done  for  the 
work  itself  and  not  for  the  reward.  But  I  feel 
myself  that  these  are  no  less  important  in  the 
East  than  more  definite  Christian  virtues,  for  it 
is  down  this  path  the  Christ  must  come.  It  seems 
sometimes  that  one  can  almost  hear  His  Feet. 


SCOUTS,  BLACK  AND  BROWN     171 

On  this  occasion,  as  we  returned  to  town,  we 
met  a  Mohammedan  funeral — one  of  the  most 
revolting  I  have  yet  seen.  The  body,  wrapped 
in  many  clothes,  is  borne  on  a  kind  of  bier, 
round  which  men  leap  wildly  and  abandonly, 
trying  to  touch  it.  The  bearers  change  con- 
stantly ;  and  as  this  was  a  dervish  funeral  we 
had  every  indication,  in  rolling  eyeballs  and 
even  foaming  mouths,  of  that  frenzy.  As  they 
go  they  chant  hoarsely  the  creed  of  Islam,  in  a 
way  that  you  have  to  hear  to  believe.  But  the 
worst  feature  is  the  coarse  mockery  of  the  on- 
lookers and  even  apparently  of  the  mourners, 
who  seem  to  wish  almost,  as  in  the  hideous 
Banyan  rites,  to  mock  the  dead.  Well,  this 
company  came  to  meet  us,  and  for  a  minute  I 
did  not  know  what  to  do.  Then  I  formed  the 
boys  in  line  and  stood  them  at  the  strictest 
attention  (I  at  the  salute)  while  it  passed.  After- 
wards they  asked  me  why  I  had  done  so,  and  I 
said  that  Christians  honour  the  dead  because 
they  have  passed  into  the  hands  of  God.  They 
considered  it  a  little,  and  then  one  big  Moham- 
medan lad  said,  '  The  Christian  dasturi  (custom), 
sir,  is  very  good.' 

Is  it  worth  while  to  scout  ? 


XIX 

NIGHT   IN   A   LAND    OF   DREAMS 

To-day,  for  three  hours  and  sixty  miles,  I  have 
been  in  another  world.  We  had  just  labori- 
ously finished  the  Fifth  Declension  when  a 
note  was  handed  to  me  containing  an  invita- 
tion to  motor  during  the  cool  of  the  afternoon 
and  evening,  and  in  response  to  it  I  gathered 
my  legs  under  a  wicker  chair  and  nursed  a 
small  cup  of  tea  and  a  piece  of  thin-cut  bread 
and  butter  at  the  Consulate  at  4.45  p.m.  for 
the  first  time  for  some  months.  It  was  alto- 
gether charming,  at  least  to  me.  The  College 
ought,  I  suppose,  to  satisfy  one's  every  instinct, 
and  I  am  indeed  prepared  to  be  entirely  content 
with  tea  in  thick  breakfast-cups  and  thoroughly 
solid  bread  and  butter,  but  it  is  impossible  to 
deny  that  the  change  was  pleasant.  The  place 
of  tea  was  so  delightful,  too.  A  little  verandah 
has  been  built  out  over  the  pillared  porch,  and  air, 
freshened  by  a  punkah  overhead,  flows  in  from 
a  garden  which,  if  not  perfect,  is  at  least  a 

172 


NIGHT  IN  A  LAND  OF  DREAMS     178 

praiseworthy  attempt ;  while  chairs  fulfil  their 
ordinary  course  at  afternoon  tea,  and  group 
themselves  round  a  wicker  table  and  one's 
hostess.  We  talked,  too,  of  ridiculous  things : 
how  much  wiser  Mary  would  have  been  to  have 
kept  the  matchless  Cranmer  in  a  dungeon,  and 
to  have  tortured  a  collect  out  of  him  per  diem 
instead  of  wasteful  slaughter  ;  and  of  the  pro- 
found solemnity  of  Chestertonian  verse.  Then 
more  people  drifted  in,  and  it  became  unneces- 
sary for  me  to  talk,  so  that  I  leaned  back  with 
a  cigarette,  allowing  myself  to  admire  an  amber 
necklace  of  Arab  workmanship  which  a  lady 
made  yet  more  beautiful,  and  to  speculate  in- 
credulously on  the  fashions  of  French  millinery 
in  another  direction. 

Then  we  descended  to  the  car,  a  four-seater, 
whose  driver  I  have  since  learned  to  know  as 
a  perfect  chauffeur,  and  I  found  myself  in 
front  by  a  kind  arrangement  which  left  me 
free  to  enjoy  much  and  talk  little.  We  started, 
and  I  settled  into  my  seat.  Perhaps  it  was 
rather  foolish,  but  I  could  not  but  think  wist- 
fully that  the  last  time  I  had  felt  the  hum  of 
a  good  engine  beneath  me  was  in  Yorkshire, 
when  we  had  sped  through  the  brown  and  gold 
and  purple  and  grey  of  the   moors  that  lie 


174  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

between  our  Lady  Wharf  and  Rumble's  Moor, 
when  friends  of  a  kind  one  rarely  makes  sat 
near,  and  when  the  keen  crisp  air  had  stirred 
all  one's  blood  and  made  the  battle  good.  Here, 
indeed,  it  was  not  quite  the  same.  But  the 
speed-indicator  soon  quivered  between  twenty- 
five  and  thirty,  the  white  ribbon  of  a  road 
leapt  up  again  to  meet  us,  and  the  wind  sang 
by  as  the  spirit  of  motoring  alone  can  teach 
it  to  do. 

Africa,  too,  is  seen  at  its  best  from  the  car. 
The  miles  rolled  off  in  a  succession  of  beautiful 
things  so  quickly  coming  and  so  quickly  gone 
that  one  had  only  time  to  be  grateful.  First 
we  raced  under  the  high  casuarinas,  past  the 
Sports  Club,  and,  in  a  wide  bend,  round  the 
open  fields  of  the  King's  African  Rifles'  Head- 
quarters, then,  slowing  intelligently,  into  the 
outskirts  of  the  big  native  town  that  we  had 
all  but  avoided.  The  askari  saluted  as  we 
swung  out  to  the  north,  over  a  low  bridge,  past 
wide  fiats  of  sand  with  the  city  militant  beyond 
them  save  where  the  sea  glistened  stilly  in  the 
sun.  In  a  few  minutes  we  were  among  the  trees 
of  the  plantations.  It  is  then  that  Africa  seems 
to  hold  you  in  a  spell.  One  passes  her  plod- 
ding peoples  on  the  road :  a  team  of  half-naked 


NIGHT  IN  A  LAND  OF  DREAMS     175 

Wa-Kikuyu  sweating  at  a  load  of  broken  coral 
for  a  water- works  among  the  palms  farther  on  ; 
a  couple  of  women,  brown  earthen  water-pot 
on  head,  stepping  stately  to  the  rude  well ;  a 
party  of  white-robed  Arabs  walking  leisurely 
into  town  for  the  endless  business  of  buying 
and  selling  shambas.  Once  we  slowed  down 
with  grinding  brakes  for  a  long  procession  of 
patient  wide-eyed  bullocks,  whose  wagons, 
heaped  with  grass,  were  being  driven  to  market 
by  turbaned  Indians  of  a  low  caste.  Now  and 
again  we  screamed  through  a  village,  the 
market  ceasing  to  jabber  as  we  fled  past;  the 
mosque,  with  its  well  outside  and  its  ancient 
custodian,  lying  asleep  in  the  sun ;  and  the 
little  brown  children,  who  have  forgotten  to 
fear,  cheekily  saluting  by  the  wayside.  Four 
times  in  the  first  ten  miles  gaunt  ruins  by  the 
sea  reminded  us  of  ancient  sultans,  whose 
glory  of  slaves  and  concubines  is  at  an  end. 
Once  as  we  passed  a  small  miniature  hut, 
from  whose  little  door  fluttered  a  curtain  of 
strips  of  linen,  one  remembered  that  for  these 
people  the  bamboo  brake  behind  still  hid  a 
devil  not  cast  out.  And  then,  as  we  breasted  a 
hill  through  a  richplantationof  stately  palms  and 
sailed  gladly  downhill  past  vistas  of  fragrant 


176  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

cloves,  the  road  inclined  landwards  a  little,  and 
the  sea  was  left  behind. 

Ten  miles  farther  on  you  see  it  again.  Run- 
ning under  the  lea  of  a  line  of  low  hills,  them- 
selves one  rich  tangle  of  vivid  vegetation,  the 
trees  thin  suddenly  right  ahead,  and  the  blue 
of  the  water  glints  beyond  them.  In  a  little 
the  car  was  running  over  a  low  bridge  thrown 
across  a  slow-moving  stream  set  in  lush  grasses 
and  thick  rushes,  and,  moving  to  the  collector's 
house,  we  come  to  a  standstill  before  his  door. 
Down  to  the  beach  by  a  steepish  path  we 
follow  him,  and  spend  an  hour  picking  up  the 
strangest  jetsam  of  the  centuries  among  the 
sand- waste  of  the  shore — no  less  a  treasure  than 
antique  glass  beads  of  possibly  Persian  manu- 
facture, thrown  ages  ago  into  the  sea  when  a 
race  of  conquerors  that  has  left  barely  a  trace 
behind,  paid  sacrifice  in  its  turn  to  the  god  of 
the  sea. 

But  the  darkening  of  the  day  came  soon 
upon  us,  and  with  it,  for  me,  the  best  hour  of 
all.  First,  far  over  the  low  palm-set  headland 
that  runs  out,  across  a  mile  of  strait,  into  the 
beauty  of  the  north-western  sea,  the  sun  began  to 
sink  in  tropic  splendour.  He  stained  the  sky 
with  deep  blues  and  yellows  and  greens,  and 


NIGHT  IN  A  LAND  OF  DREAMS     177 

then,  fiery  behind  a  bank  of  cloud,  his  blood 
dyed  cloud  and  sky  and  sea.  The  welter  of 
crimson  and  gold  cast  a  rich  glow  over  the 
sand -flats  of  the  receding  tide  and  bathed 
gloriously  the  dark  flow  of  the  still  river.  We 
leaned  on  the  bridge  in  a  glory  and  heard  the 
insects  awake  in  fairyland.  The  bull-frogs 
croaked  among  fiery  rushes  which  rose  from 
the  dark  night,  and  the  cicalas  answered  from 
black  foliaceous  trees  which  stood  out  gauntly 
against  the  reflected  glow  in  the  eastern  sky. 
The  cool  shadows  were  all  about  us  as  the  car 
slowed  gracefully  down  on  the  bridge  to  take 
us  in.  As  we  climbed  the  hilly  ascent  from 
the  shore  we  looked  back  to  see,  literally,  the 
fall  of  the  glowing  sun  into  that  stream  which 
the  ancients  rightly  knew  encircled  the  world, 
and  forward  again  to  a  blackness  all  starred 
with  myriad  fireflies.  We  gathered  way  over 
the  crest,  and  silence  fell  on  all  of  us.  At 
first  there  was  still  light  enough  to  see  solitary 
sentry  palms  on  every  high  hill,  or  some  out- 
lying copse  of  mango  or  kapok  against  the 
lighter  shades  of  grassy  waste.  But  this  soon 
passed.  Henceforth  our  road,  like  a  deep 
gorge  between  high  black  banks  with  stars  one 
prodigal  glory  above  and  the  fireflies  no  less 

M 


178  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

generously  given  below,  streamed  away  past 
our  headlights  as  it  does  only  in  the  land  of 
dreams.  Now  and  again  a  flickering  flame 
shone  before  us,  and  we  passed  the  timid  patient 
heads  of  the  bullocks  of  some  country  cart 
bending,  with  great  amazed  eyes,  under  the 
yoke,  their  way  lit  by  the  guttering  light  of  a 
small  oil  lamp  behind  them,  whose  sheen 
glinted  on  their  glistening  hides.  In  the 
villages  small  fires  twinkled  outside  every  hut, 
black  shadowy  folk  crowded  round  over  their 
evening  meal,  and  a  fragrant  steam  went  up 
among  the  sheltering  banana  leaves.  Nearer 
town,  the  long  row  of  lights  set  in  the  city 
shone  home-like  beyond  the  bay,  and  the 
moon  gleamed  in  silver  chains  across  the  flats. 
Far  out  among  low  bushes  a  small  pool  was  a 
silver  sheet  of  wonder,  and  beyond,  low  on  the 
horizon,  there  came  and  went  a  fierce  red  star. 
And  as  we  took  the  homeward  turn  a  meteor 
leaped  vividly  across  infinite  spaces  and  hid 
in  the  night. 


XX 


DOWN   THE   world's    HIGHWAYS 

A  SINGLE  hundred  yards  of  beach,  sandwiched 
between  the  high  wall  of  the  Customs  and  the 
short  landing  pier  of  a  big  agent,  catches  the 
greater  number  of  that  host  of  visitors  who 
look  in  on  our  small  island  on  their  journey- 
down  the  world's  highways.  We  are,  indeed, 
one  of  those  remote  cross-roads  of  the  trade- 
routes  which,  if  less  important  than  those  of 
old  Rome,  do  stud  the  map  of  the  Empire  of  the 
new.  No  one  is  much  concerned  with  us,  less 
now  than  fifty  years  ago.  But  one  stream  from 
the  Suez  going  south  to  Table  Bay,  another 
from  all  the  lines  that  round  the  Cape  and  come 
this  way  north,  and  yet  another  from  Madagas- 
car, the  South  African  colonies,  and  some  re- 
moter islands  on  the  way  to  India  and  beyond, 
together  with  a  like  stream  back,  all  converge 
here.  The  travellers  land  amid  a  turmoil  of 
straining  shouting  natives  drawn  from  a  huge 
area  roughly  bounded  by  Beluchistan  and  the 

179 


180  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

Great  Lakes,  Somaliland  and  the  Comoros— a 
turmoil  officered  by  Indian  police  and  Goan 
officials.  Then  they  push  their  way  up  from 
the  fringe  of  shore  boats  and  the  squatting 
line  of  fruit-sellers  and  money-changers  beyond 
the  Custom's  gate,  into  the  streets  of  as  cosmo- 
politan a  city  as  you  could  pick  out  of  the 
world's  stock.  When,  the  other  day,  an  admir- 
able liquor  law  was  framed  for  the  only  people 
such  laws  can  touch,  namely  island-born 
subjects,  it  was  found  that  there  was  only  one 
hindrance  to  its  working.  But  this  was  a  con- 
siderable one.  There  were  not  enough  island- 
born  subjects,  in  a  city  of  one  hundred  thousand, 
to  make  the  law  worth  while  ! 

We  who  sit  under  the  shadow  of  the  Cathedral 
spire  have  our  share,  naturally,  in  all  that  arises 
from  this  situation.  It  would  be  positively 
worth  while  to  make  a  book  of  a  year's  visitors 
if  only  it  would  be  safe  to  publish  it.  Indeed, 
there  would  lie  in  that  book  a  secret  commentary 
on  a  chapter  of  the  world's  history  which  is  an 
epoch  in  the  making.  Of  course,  even  a  rich 
imagination  is  not  always  proof  against  the 
annoyance  of  an  odd  bishop  who  turns  up  on  a 
busy  day,  or  a  personage  whose  notes  are  to  be 
submitted   to  the  inspection  of  those  unseen 


A  SOMALI   OF   THE  QUAY 


c  ^    c 


BOWS  THE  WORLD'S  HIGHWAYS    181 

controllers  of  so  much  destiny  in  Europe  and 
America ;  but  one  does  not  altogether  forget. 
To-day,  for  example,  I  had  the  vision  for  a  little, 
while  the  early  rains  thundered  and  soaked 
among  the  trees  of  the  garden. 

It  was  after  the  later  morning  service  that 
I  stumbled  on  a  group,  and  guessed,  in  a 
moment,  that  I  was  being  offered  a  glimpse  of 
the  great  things  of  the  world.  We  ploughed, 
therefore,  through  the  deluge,  up  the  stone 
steps  of  a  miniature  water-course,  to  my  room, 
and  having  stacked  umbrellas  and  deposited 
sandals  and  collected  chairs,  took  mental  stock 
of  one  another.  They  saw  a  priest  in  a  rather 
dirty  white  cassock  and  an  unshaven  chin  who 
has  no  part  in  this  recital ;  but  he  saw  a  more 
imposing  array. 

First,  there  was  a  distinctly  dark  Indian  in 
the  black  dress,  white  collar,  Roman  stock,  and 
soft  hat  of  the  Anglican  clergyman  at  home 
and  of  some  societies  abroad ;  secondly,  there 
was  his  companion,  lighter  in  colour  but  not 
by  so  much,  with  rather  wild  black  hair,  two 
very  wet  clinging  white  robes,  sandalled  feet, 
and  a  towel ;  thirdly,  there  was  a  friend  in 
white  trousers,  kanzu,  coat,  and  red  tarbusch ; 
and  fourthly,  there  was  a  local  teacher,  who 


182  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

did  the  introductions,  in  ordinary  English 
dress  of  grey,  orientaHsed  by  a  mixture  of 
superimposed  colours  and  a  disregard  of  the 
usual  manner  of  wearing  them.  All  four  spoke 
English  well,  and  we  were  soon  on  excellent 
terms.  They  were  not  in  the  least,  so  far  as  I 
could  see,  conceited;  indeed,  the  ecclesiastic  was 
transparently  a  simple  quiet  fellow  of  no  par- 
ticular distinction.  Nor  was  there — or  is  there 
— any  mystery  about  them,  for  the  first  three 
were  journeying  from  a  South  African  college 
to  India  with  second-class  tickets  on  an  ordinary 
mail.  That  their  like  are  to  be  met  with  wher- 
ever a  route  cuts  another  route  to  or  from  India, 
is  only  one  indication  of  their  importance. 

The  three  were  graduates  of  an  Indian  uni- 
versity of  distinction,  and  were  Christians. 
The  chief  thing  about  them  was,  indeed,  their 
Christianity,  for  they  looked  at  India  through 
it  and  saw  the  world  in  its  light.  They  were 
representatives  of  that  Christian  India  which 
is  much  larger  to-day  than  the  communicant 
body  of  the  Church  of  England  at  home  ;  and 
the  deacon  in  black  was  on  his  way  from 
seven  years'  service  among  the  Indians  of 
Natal  (whose  number  is  equal  to  that  of  the 
Europeans)    to    visit    the    Lord    Bishop    of 


DOWN  THE  WORLD'S  HIGHWAYS     183 

Dornkal,  whose  seat  is  among  those  of  English 
bishops  first  sent  to  India  by  Act  of  ParUa- 
ment  and  to  this  moment  officially  Lords 
Spiritual  in  the  Dependency.  He  told  of  a 
recent  consecration  in  the  Cathedral  he  had 
left,  where  a  crowded  church  had  sheltered 
South  African  bishops,  Government  officers, 
European  Christians,  Zulu  converts,  and  Indian 
sharers  of  their  Faith.  His  friend  had  most 
to  say  when  I  inquired,  to  test  him,  if  he  had 
heard  of  a  certain  attempt  on  Franciscan  lines 
to  preach  the  Gospel  in  India.  He  was  going 
indeed,  he  told  me,  to  sit  down  among  the 
pariahs  of  a  Presidency  where  recent  electoral 
considerations  have  caused  much  interest  to 
be  taken  in  that  class.  He  spoke  quietly  of 
the  growth  of  the  Kingdom  among  such,  and 
said  that,  speaking  for  himself  as  a  member  of 
a  much  higher  caste,  it  was  curious  to  reflect 
that  the  future  of  India  lay  with  them.  I 
asked  how,  and  he  replied  that  they  made 
admirable  scholars,  and  were  the  poor  whom 
the  revolutionary  Christian  ethic  inevitably 
makes  princes.  Then  his  eyes  lit  on  the  latest 
production  of  Oxford  theological  scholarship 
which  lay  on  my  table,  and  he  eagerly  turned 
to  that.     He  asked  me  what  I  thought  of  an 


184  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

essay  on  the  Historic  Christ.  I  passed  the 
answering  over  to  him,  and  wondered  inwardly, 
with  a  catch  of  fear,  as  he  answered  that  it 
seemed  to  him  that  Western  scholars  made  too 
much  of  inevitably  obscure  documents  when  they 
allowed  evidence  so  obtained  to  overrule  our  own 
certain  present  knowledge  of  our  Lord.  It  was 
the  simple  quietness  of  it  that  told,  the  quiet- 
ness of  the  spirit  of  the  religious  East  which  we 
Westerners  saw  first  in  the  face  of  Jesus  Christ. 

We  prayed  together  before  they  went,  the 
sense  of  union  amid  diversity  being  very  strong  ; 
and  then  they  passed  out.  The  scholar  shuffled 
into  his  sandals,  wrapped  his  towel  about  him, 
and  went  out  to  his  pariahs ;  the  deacon  shook 
hands  honestly  and  asked  my  prayers  against 
his  ordination.  And  I  went  back  to  my  chair. 
I  allowed  myself  ten  minutes  with  open  eyes 
before  I  returned,  as  is  meet  and  right,  to  the 
enclosed  horizon  of  my  own  vocation.  I  saw  my 
strangers,  and  many  more,  passing  on  their  way, 
slaves  of  the  greatest  dynamic  the  world  has 
seen.  In  its  Spring,  that  dynamic  overturned 
one  world ;  it  is  at  a  second  and  a  greater  Spring 
to-day.  But  the  Spirit  of  the  World  is  blind 
in  our  day.  If  it  were  wise  it  would  burn  these 
men  as  Nero  did,  and  so  at  least  die  fighting ! 


XXI 

A   VESSEL   UNTO   DISHONOUR 

The  pen  of  Victor  Hugo  might  have  done 
justice  to  the  corner,  but  even  that  is  a  matter 
of  some  doubt ;  yet  I  shall  attempt  it,  because 
here  is  being  played  one  of  those  incredible 
mysteries  of  life  with  which  we  are  fronted 
day  by  day.  A  narrow  lane  leads  to  the  place, 
with  Indian  shops  on  either  side :  one,  pros- 
perous seemingly,  where  a  monstrously  fat 
woman  keeps  toll  of  the  pice  with  her  back  to 
a  carved  door-post,  and  her  yellow-trousered 
legs  tucked  under  her ;  the  other,  a  cavernous 
abode,  with  few  wares  at  the  door,  which  pours 
out  of  its  black  depths  an  odd  dozen  of  children 
at  all  hours.  Suddenly,  however,  the  way  turns 
sharply  right  and  left,  that  to  the  right  being 
the  main  road.  It  turns  where  another  shop 
does  busy  trade,  supervised  from  a  grated 
window  above  a  lean-to  roof  of  iron  sheeting 
usually  heaped  with  dirty  body-cloths,  and 
graced  by  a  shrill  person  eternally  anxious  to 


186  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

disprove  the  idea  that  an  Indian  woman  is  the 
creature  of  her  husband.  He,  with  a  dirty- 
yellow  body  bare  to  the  waist,  keeps  inter- 
minable watch  below ;  but  we  are  not  con- 
cerned with  him.  Round  to  the  left  is  a  little- 
frequented  alley,  even  more  than  usually  rough 
with  stones.  The  shopkeepers  pitch  their 
refuse  here.  A  grotesque  monkey,  bound 
tightly  round  the  stomach  with  a  shred  of 
linen,  hangs  above  a  doorway  on  one  side  which 
leads,  by  a  black  passage  feebly  lit  at  night 
with  a  candle  in  a  tin  sconce,  to  a  house  of  ill- 
fame  belonging  to  the  surias  of  a  late  Moham- 
medan notability  ;  on  the  other  side  yawns  the 
entrance  to  a  cellar.  Ten  paces  ahead,  the 
way  twists  again  by  a  high  and  filthy  wall,  nor 
is  there  even  the  green  of  a  towering  cocoa-nut 
above  it.  Here,  then,  lives  the  woman  of 
whom  I  write — in  the  cellar. 

It  is  a  goat  cellar.  There  must  be  thirty  of 
them,  big  and  little,  in  the  place  ;  and  although 
no  one  could  say  what  may  be  beyond,  down  a 
cavernous  archway  into  which  a  little  light 
filters,  with  Rembrandtesque  effect,  far  ahead, 
at  least  the  thing  itself  is  far  too  small  for  the 
thirty  who  are  perpetually  pushing  one  another 
out  into  the  street.     The  hairy  patriarchs  of 


A  VESSEL  UNTO  DISHONOUR     187 

the  flock  generally  select  the  doorway  for  their 
morning  cud,  and  a  cluster  of  wise  heads  project 
on  most  days  as  I  pass.  Their  udders  are 
bound  up  in  rough  sacking,  and  the  kids  push 
among  them  whenever  a  rotting  mango  or  a 
disused  basket  of  cocoa-nut  plaiting  is  cast  out 
into  the  lane.  Within  the  entrance,  on  the 
left,  is  a  raised  dais,  where  grass  and  straw  are 
added  to  a  rotting  heap  from  time  to  time. 
The  stench  is  what  you  would  imagine.  During 
the  rains,  when  a  ghastly  brown  trickle  dis- 
colours even  the  turgid  flood  that  races  down 
the  street,  the  smell  is  damp,  if  one  may  so  say, 
and  incredibly  nauseous.  But  in  the  hot  sun, 
at  times,  there  are  no  words  to  express  it.  It 
is  so  utterly  sickening — it  and  the  whole  place 
— that  one  passes  in  a  kind  of  loathing  not  even 
thinkable.     And  here  there  lives  a  woman. 

She  is  old,  and  her  torn  grey  hairs  hang  in 
matted  tangles  about  her.  She  is  always  bent ; 
but  then  I  have  never  yet  seen  her  in  an  occupa- 
tion which  would  call  for  a  straight  back,  though 
— to  think  of  it ! — I  must  have  seen  her  many 
hundred  times.  Twelve  months  ago  she  was 
dressed  as  she  was  this  morning  :  in  a  torn  and 
faded  dull  red  skirt,  bound  about  her  by  knotted 
tapes,  surmounted  by  an  Indian  bodice  only  a 


188  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

few  inches  wide  in  front,  and  of  but  two  sus- 
taining strings  behind.  Her  back,  thus  bare, 
is  very  old  and  yellow,  as  like  to  ancient  dirt- 
stained  parchment  as  well  may  be  and  yet  live. 
She  goes  bare-foot,  bare-armed,  and  bare- 
headed too.  For  the  most  part  she  is  silent,  but 
she  croons  at  times  to  the  goats  ;  and  once  she 
shrieked. 

Maybe  my  moralising  is  foolish,  but  to  me 
she  is,  I  will  not  say  a  nightmare  for  it  is  more 
a  mystery  than  that,  but  at  least  an  obsession. 
The  thought  of  her  haunts  me,  and  will  ever  do 
so.  I  remember  her  in  a  series  of  impressions, 
caught  as  I  pass  the  door  nearly  always  thrice 
a  day.  They  increase  often  enough,  for  she  is 
always  there.  However  early  in  the  morning 
I  may  visit  the  place,  she  is  visible,  crouching 
among  the  filth  with  a  small  hand-broom  of 
fibrous  cane  in  her  hand,  ineffectually  cleaning 
the  floor.  Once  she  was  bending  over  a  kid 
with  a  broken  leg,  its  mother  bleating  by.  Once 
I  caught  her  half  asleep  against  a  crouching 
beast ;  it  was  then  that  I  paused,  and  she 
awoke  and  fled.  Once,  at  night,  the  door  was 
open  by  some  mischance,  and  she  was  entirely 
asleep,  half  hid  in  a  huddle  of  goat,  just  visible 
in  the  yellow  light  of  a  guttering  oil  lamp  ;  and 


A  VESSEL  UNTO  DISHONOUR     189 

once  she  was  between  two  naked  boys  of  a 
few  years  old,  who  were  trying  to  beat  her 
flock. 

She  is,  presumably,  a  slave,  one  of  those  who 
do  not  know  enough  to  conceive  of  a  freedom 
which  might  be  hers,  or  to  use  it  if  granted. 
What  one  asks  is  how  she  came,  first  of  all ; 
from  India  ?  from  some  sweet  clean  hut  among 
the  rice-fields,  as  a  girl,  pretty  perhaps,  loving, 
lovable  ?  Maybe  she  was  born  here  ;  maybe 
she  is  half-witted,  more  than  likely  illegitimate  ; 
maybe  she  has  never  seen  a  tenth  as  much  of 
Zanzibar  as  even  I !  But  to  me  it  is  a  more 
perpetual  puzzle  how  she  lives  ;  if  she  thinks  ; 
if  she  cares  ;  if  her  bent  body  aches  ;  if  she 
ever  dreams  of  a  bed  and  of  a  choice  of  food. 
The  end,  one  speculates  more  idly ;  the  imme- 
diate end  matters  really  so  little.  Thirty  years 
ago  they  would  have  thrown  her  into  the  creek, 
and  she  would  have  been  one  of  those  bleached 
bodies  which  used  to  strew  the  beach  below 
the  Consulate  windows,  as  Burton  says  ;  but 
to-day  it  will  at  least  be  a  dung-heap,  possibly 
even,  perhaps,  a  scratched  heap  under  the  dark 
cool  mangoes  at  last,  where  the  sun  flickers  in 
golden  arrows,  and  the  moon  throws  black 
shadows  of  forgetfulness. 


190  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

Of  course,  the  strangest  thing  of  all  about  her 
is  that  in  this  story  there  is  simply  and  Uterally 
no  scrap  of  exaggeration,  nor  any  speculation 
beyond  the  likeliest.  She  will  be  there  to- 
morrow unless  she  dies  to-night.  She  is  as 
much  part  of  this  incredible  pageantry  of 
Eastern  life  as  the  Koran  school  round  the 
corner,  with  its  bawling,  rather  jolly,  children, 
or  the  old  fruit-seller  just  beyond  who  lives  in 
a  booth  of  empty  oil  tins  flattened  and  nailed 
together.  In  one  sense,  she  is  even  ceasing  to 
be  an  astonishment,  for  really  this  ancient 
world,  which  is  new  beyond  the  dreams  of  a 
Columbus  to  a  European,  vitiates  one's  sense 
of  wonder  by  its  complexity  almost  as  soon  as 
Suez  has  grown  real  out  of  the  morning  mist. 
But  to-day  I  cannot  forget  this  particular 
morning's  impression. 

I  was  aware  of  trouble  before  the  staring 
shop  at  the  cross- ways  hove  in  sight,  because  a 
din  of  mixed  Swahili  and  Gujerati  penetrated 
the  very  enclosure  of  the  Cathedral  itself.  It 
is  impossible  to  say  what  the  disturbance  was 
about,  but  it  probably  concerned  a  pot-bellied 
yelling  girl  of  perhaps  four  years,  who  lay 
naked  in  the  street  while  two  women  shook 
angry  fists  above  her.     All  the  street  had  come 


A  VESSEL  UNTO  DISHONOUR     191 

to  see  :  the  comic  barber,  the  fat  woman,  the 
crowd  which  lolls  by  the  mosque  next  door,  the 
serious  coffee-seller,  and  the  ancient  pair  of 
cronies  who  throw  one  a  cheery  Jambo  from  the 
doorway  of  a  Banyan  merchant  of  patriarchal 
age.  Even  the  goat-herd  had  come  to  see. 
She  stood  in  the  sun  for  once  at  her  corner, 
with  her  little  broom  in  her  hand,  bent  restrain- 
ingly,  even  then,  over  a  frisky  kid  which  was 
anxious  to  inquire  into  the  disturbance  too. 
But  as  I  came  near,  her  mistress  noticed  her. 
I  heard  a  hoarse  scream  in  Gujerati,  caught  a 
glimpse  of  a  threatening  stick,  and  saw  a  weal 
rise  on  the  bare  yellow  back  as  she  fled  to  the 
inferno.  It  was  thus  that  I  heard  her  voice 
above  a  mutter  at  last. 

Myself,  I  do  not  doubt  but  that  the  Potter 
can  mould  the  clay  again.  It  is  a  '  Great 
House.'  .  .  . 


XXII 

THE   COFFEE-SELLER 

I  ASSOCIATE  the  coffee-seller  entirely  with  the 
bright  side  of  things.  He  sits  in  my  mental 
vision  as  I  have  often  seen  him  sitting,  in  the 
sun,  in  a  space  caused  by  the  emerging  of  a 
narrow  lane  into  a  rather  wider  street.  Here 
palms  in  a  green  bravery  lean  over  the  high 
wall  he  faces,  and  a  stately  house  or  two  stands 
just  beyond  in  proud  disdain  of  the  huddled 
goat-herd  hovels  we  have  left.  I  round  the 
corner  on  him  many  times  a  week,  and  he  is 
nearly  always  busy  at  something.  Sometimes 
he  is  standing  over  a  primitive  mortar  shaped 
from  a  hollowed  log  some  three  feet  high,  and 
then  he  is  crushing  the  aromatic  berries  with 
a  rough  wood  pestle  which  he  wields  with  a 
curiously  skilful  and  powerful  twist.  Or,  again, 
he  will  be  roasting,  and  this  one  knows  well 
round  the  corner,  and  I  see  him  crouching  over 
a  charcoal  brazier  with  a  vessel  in  his  hands 
wherein  the  green  beans  are  in  constant  flying 

192 


THE  COFFEE-SELLER  193 

motion  and  browning  fragrantly.  An  hour 
later  the  fragrant  coffee  will  be  stored  away,  and 
he  will  be  washing  up.  Then  he  squats  and 
even  seems  to  contract  a  little  to  gain  power, 
while  his  place  is  well  in  the  middle  of  the  street 
where  the  loose  stones  form  an  admirable 
water-course.  He  rubs  his  brass  vessels  with 
dirt  and  sand.  And  beside  him  is  a  big  tin  once 
used  for  oil,  from  which  the  precious  water  is 
allowed  to  flow  in  a  gentle  runnel  by  means  of 
an  occasional  tilt. 

The  next  good  thing  about  him  is  that  he  is 
so  surprisingly  elemental.  He  is  obviously  an 
Arab,  and  yet  he  is  content  with  little.  He 
stops  pounding  when  I  come  near  (if  it  is  a 
mortar  morning),  and  I  get  my  greeting  well  in 
hand.  He  is  tall  and  well-built,  spare  perhaps 
a  little,  but  finely  cut,  and  since  he  usually 
wears  nothing  but  a  cloth  round  the  waist,  his 
light  brown  skin  shines  brightly  in  the  sun 
without  hindrance.  His  face  is  curiously  but 
unconsciously  humorous,  it  being  due,  I  fancy, 
to  the  fringe  of  black  hair  that  is  all  that  is 
left  about  a  bald  top  ;  to  a  clean-shaven  face 
rather  square  and  heavy,  with  a  big  mouth 
slightly  thrust  out ;  and  to  eyes  that  suggest 
to  me  surprised  simplicity  at  the  bewildering 

N 


194  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

wonder  of  a  world  which  sets  him  grinding 
coffee,  and  sends  a  creature  Hke  myself  out  of 
the  land  of  wealth  and  unbelievers  to  gaze  upon 
him.  When  I  smile  his  face  opens  up  mysteri- 
ously, and  a  very  kindly  soul  looks  out.  How- 
ever, he  instantly  returns  to  the  pound,  and  I 
have  not  lagged  ten  seconds. 

His  house  could  in  no  sense  be  described  as 
desirable,  though  it  is  true  that  I  cannot  say 
what  glowing  secrets  may  be  hid  in  the  dark- 
ness beyond  a  half-concealing  sheet  and  a  fire- 
place of  stone.  Viewed  from  the  street,  it  is  a 
cave.  There  are  no  windows,  and  the  door  is 
identical  with  the  entire  front,  being  sand- 
wiched also  between  a  blank-walled  mosque 
and  houses  growing  in  importance  as  they 
straggle  up  the  street  towards  the  mansions 
above.  It  is  cavernous,  because  I  catch  at 
times  the  far-distant  gleam  of  a  fugitive  candle. 
For  the  rest,  I  must  confess  that  its  atmosphere 
— such  of  it,  that  is,  as  percolates  through  to 
the  street — is  reminiscent  of  unwashed  clothes 
and  the  last  meal  of  fish ;  but  it  is  a  home  of 
some  importance.  Several  men  join  the  coffee- 
seller  towards  midday,  and  an  ugly  woman, 
with  an  uglier  business  in  a  house  full  of  young 
girls  round  the  corner,  frequently  occupies  the 


THE  COFFEE-SELLER  195 

stool  by  the  door.  She  is  pock-marked  and 
coarse,  and  she  wears  the  hideous  frilled 
trousers  of  Swahili  female  full-dress  in  a  parti- 
coloured fashion  which  suggests  the  fool's  hose 
of  the  Middle  Age.  But  with  her,  I  fancy,  my 
coffee-seller  has  little  to  do.  He  sits,  as  a  rule 
when  in  company,  with  a  small  brass  hookah 
in  front  of  him  cleverly  held  by  his  foot,  and 
he  talks  profoundly  with  a  gesture  of  its  stem. 
When  actually  about  upon  his  trade  he  is  a 
model  of  energetic  business,  and  I  envy  him 
not  only  for  the  possession  of  his  stock-in- 
trade,  but  also  for  his  adroitness.  The  former 
consists  of  a  bewitching  arrangement  in  wrought 
and  twisted  iron  of  Arab  workmanship,  whereby 
the  coffee  is  always  at  boiling  pitch,  for  sus- 
pended below  the  actual  receptacle  for  the 
liquor  is  an  open-work  basket  of  metal  carry- 
ing a  mass  of  glowing  charcoal.  The  whole  is 
swung  on  chains  which  gather  to  a  ring  in  the 
seller's  hand,  and  which,  when  grasped  tightly, 
permit  the  coffee  to  be  poured  from  the  vessel 
thus  made  rigid.  To  this  instrument  is  to  be 
added  the  nest  of  china  cups  which  the  coffee 
merchant  carries  in  his  right  hand.  As  he  goes 
he  shoots  these  out  a  little  way  and  catches 
them  again  with  a  musical  jingle   of  china, 


196  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

which  is  itself  his  chief  advertisement.  But 
now  and  again  he  calls  his  wares  with  a  long 
accentuation — 'Kaha-a-a-awa !  Kaha-a-a-awa ! ' 
— coming  swiftly  through  the  market  or  down 
the  narrow  lanes  to  the  music  of  his  cups  and 
the  rhythm  of  his  swaying  urn,  until  a  pur- 
chaser attracts  his  polite  attention.  Some 
devout  soul,  a-sprawl  lazily  in  the  door  of  a 
mosque,  requires  refreshment  after  the  labour 
of  his  prayers,  and  produces  the  necessary  coin 
from  the  folds  of  his  dirty  white  garments.  It 
is,  of  course,  the  almighty  pice.  And  for  that 
fat  copper  coin,  whose  English  equivalent  in 
value  is  precisely  a  farthing,  my  cheerful  coffee 
merchant  gives  out  four  of  his  little  coffee  cups 
full  of  a  rich-flavoured,  thick,  hot,  delicious 
coffee  that  one  might  seek  in  vain  from 
Stewart's  to  the  Trocadero. 

The  urn  emptied,  on  some  nights  he  dresses 
in  a  white  turban  and  a  kanzu,  and  goes  off  to 
his  club.  At  least,  religious  though  it  is,  the 
gathering  which  I  see  occasionally  when  my 
work  has  kept  me  late  is  as  much  suggestive 
of  a  club  as  of  religion.  It  forgathers  in  one 
of  the  already  mentioned  big  houses  up  the 
street,  and  that  series  of  fleeting  glances 
through  the  door,  which  is  all  that  my  heathen 


THE  COFFEE-SELLER  197 

state  allows  me,  shows  a  curious  picture.  To 
the  left  of  the  entrance  door,  the  floor  of  a 
spacious  hall  is  raised  as  a  kind  of  big  dais. 
All  round  the  three  walls  which  enclose  it 
runs  a  stone  seat,  and  mats  are  spread  on  the 
floor.  As  I  pass,  my  first  indication  of  a  meet- 
ing lies  in  the  ring  of  slippers  and  sandals,  of 
every  make  and  size,  which  litter  the  door,  its 
steps,  and  even  the  path  outside.  Scores  of 
pairs  are  there,  in  a  kind  of  confusion  of  twos. 
Within,  their  owners  sit  on  the  seat  or  squat 
on  the  mats,  the  more  part  looking  extremely 
sleepy,  though  some  have  Korans  themselves 
and  take  a  greater  interest  in  the  proceedings. 
A  reader,  whom  I  have  never  been  able  to  see, 
reads  in  a  sing-song,  heavily  monotonous  voice, 
and  at  intervals  the  entire  assemblage  intone 
the  Islamic  creed  to  that  universal  chant  which, 
once  heard,  is  never  forgotten.  By  the  hour 
together  they  keep  up  this  half-minute  dirge, 
which,  to  my  misbelieving  understanding, 
would  be  a  little  tiring.  Indeed,  even  my 
admirable  dispenser  of  coffee,  in  all  the  pride 
of  his  church  clothes,  shares  my  feeling.  I 
have  seen  his  square  face  and  black-fringed 
head  nodding  by  the  corner  many  times  ;  and 
as  he  does  not  appear  yet  to  have  made  a  profit 


198  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

large  enough  to  buy  a  Koran,  I  only  wonder 
he  is  as  much  awake  as  he  is.  He  sometimes 
starts  at  the  clatter  of  my  boots  without  in  the 
night,  and  his  next  credo  rings  defiantly, 
'  There  is  no  God  but  God,  and  Mohammed 
is  the  Prophet  of  God.'  Well,  about 
Mohammed  there  are  two  opinions ;  but  my 
friend's  coffee  is  so  admirable  that  I  am  certain 
to  make  it  is  his  vocation,  wherein,  in  his 
cheerful  simplicity,  he  may  well  abide  with 
God. 


XXIII 

*  THE   MOTHER   OF   THE   POOR  ' 

This  evening,  towards  sunset,  I  and  another 
went  on  pilgrimage.  The  way  lay  out  of  the 
town  by  the  golf  course,  and  from  thence  on 
to  the  shore  which  borders  it,  a  shore  of  keen 
coral  points  and  fantastic  rock-pools  with  a 
marge  of  strange  sea- wrack  tossed  high  by  the 
full  tides  of  the  monsoon.  The  water  was 
lapping  the  uppermost  limit  of  its  rise,  and 
adding  curious  treasures  of  delicate  tropical 
shells  and  mysterious  fragments  of  forest 
growths  from  across  twenty  miles  of  strait 
with  every  wave.  Its  colour  was  that  mingled 
green  and  blue  which  suggests  the  untrammelled 
ocean  more  than  any  other  of  the  colours  of  the 
shore,  and  there  was  promise  far  out  of  a  rich 
sunset. 

Soon  the  shore  gives  to  a  sandy  stretch  of 
little  dunes  covered  with  queer  prickly  shore 
plants,  which  seem  as  if  they  are  strays  from 
those  fantastic  forms  which  made  up  the  world's 

199 


200  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

green  robe  when  she  was  young  ;  and,  as  if  to 
keep  them  company,  there  are  strange  crea- 
tures of  the  mud  and  ooze  to  be  seen  there  also. 
Land-crabs,  with  one  scarlet  claw  as  big  as  the 
whole  of  the  rest  of  their  bodies,  lie  at  the 
mouths  of  their  holes,  with  the  scarlet  barring 
the  door  against  intruders  and  shining  con- 
spicuously on  the  mud.  A  small  creature, 
whose  parentage  I  do  not  know,  but  whose 
body  is  long  and  grey  and  repulsive,  and  whose 
means  of  propulsion  appears  to  consist  of  two 
half-flapper,  half-claw  appendages  near  its  flat 
and  curiously  square  -  looking  head,  abounds 
in  the  waters  of  a  little  stream  whose  mouth 
the  incoming  tide  converts  into  a  miniature 
estuary.  And  then  we  ascend  the  hill  towards 
the  College  by  a  path  which  winds  pleasantly 
through  thick  bushes  of  frangipanni,  with  now 
a  plantation  of  banana  and  now  a  patch  of 
cassava  on  the  left,  and,  on  the  right,  some 
rich  flowering  shrubs  between  us  and  the  sea. 

But  it  was  not  the  College  that  we  sought 
to-day  ;  and  at  the  top  of  the  hill  we  followed 
the  path  past  the  teacher's  cottages  until  it 
struck  the  shady  high  road  by  a  huge  mango 
tree,  whose  roots  are  a  resting  place  for  the 
weary  on  their  way  to  town  and  a  centre  for 


'  THE  MOTHER  OF  THE  POOR '    201 

the  gossipers  of  a  dozen  hamlets.  Here  we 
moved  to  the  right,  and  to  the  right  again  in  a 
Httle  towards  a  house  which  stands  out  on  a 
knoll  over  the  bay  in  a  cluster  of  cocoa-nut 
palms.  Half-way  up  the  approach,  however, 
is  a  path  to  the  left,  and  we  take  it.  It  ends  in 
an  open  iron- work  gate  in  a  low  wall,  and  one 
finds  oneself  in  a  small  disused  cemetery. 

I  had  been  many  months  in  the  island  before 
I  heard  of  the  little  holy  spot,  and  this  was  my 
first  visit.  It  will  not,  I  fancy,  be  my  last,  for 
this  is  one  of  those  tender  places  which  we  only 
discover  by  chance  occasionally,  places  where 
the  spirit  can  rest  itself  best  on  the  infinite 
wisdom  of  God,  and  gather  the  lingering 
fragrances  of  much  that  seems  to  be  sinking 
into  man's  forgetfulness  in  order  to  wrap 
itself  round  in  the  comfort  that  God  forgetteth 
not.  Everywhere  here  there  is  a  suggestion 
that  dust  is  returning  to  the  earth  as  it  was. 
The  little  place  is  not,  I  believe,  any  longer  in 
use ;  there  is  rust  on  the  iron  crosses  and  on 
the  gate  ;  stains  make  it  hard  to  trace  all  the 
words  on  many  of  the  marbles ;  and  the  casu- 
arinas  above,  singing  their  own  song  in  the 
wind,  have  scattered  a  grey  dust  of  needles 
and  wood  below  from  which  the  grass  cannot 


202  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

spring.  And  yet  I  love  it  so.  Dusk  lay  on  all 
as  we  pushed  open  the  gate,  and  we  had  hardly 
done  so  when  the  Angelus  rang  out  clear  and 
soft  from  the  College  hid  among  the  westward 
trees  behind.  We  turned,  and  all  the  glory 
of  the  dying  sun  glowed  red  and  wild  behind 
the  black  trunks.  Three  by  three  the  bells 
rang  out,  and  we  commemorated  the  Handmaid 
of  the  Lord  to  whom  it  was  done  according  to 
His  Will,  and  cried  the  majesty  which  was  the 
reward  of  her  obedience. 

And  then,  in  the  dying  light,  we  went 
quickly  across  the  little  space  to  the  grave  of 
another  handmaiden  for  whom  there  had  been, 
too,  the  Will,  the  Sword,— and  the  Reward  ? 
Maybe  (I  doubt  not  myself)  this  forgetfulness 
of  earth,  and  safe  gathering  into  the  arms  of 
God,  would  have  been  all  her  desire.  The 
grave  is  a  simple  one.  There  is  a  small 
Calvary,  and  below,  on  a  raised  slab,  the  dates 
and  name,  and  then,  beneath  the  moving  sim- 
plicity of  the  Latin  '  Vox  .  .  .  audita  est,'  ^ 
this  : 

*  MAMA   WA   MASIKINI   AMEKUFA.'  ^ 

She  was  a  rich  girl  in  the  Paris  of  the  'thirties, 
and  she  married  at  seventeen— a  love  match. 

1  St.  Matt.  ii.  18.  «  f  The  Mother  of  the  Poor  is  Dead.' 


'  THE  MOTHER  OF  THE  POOR '   203 

In  the  full  flush  of  that  early  happiness  he 
died,  and  she  was  left  alone.  In  her  sorrow 
she  turned  to  God  and  not  against  Him,  and 
asked  what  was  the  answer  to  the  riddle  of  life 
He  had  set  in  her  way.  And  this  island  was 
the  answer.  They  were  founding  the  Catholic 
Mission  here  in  those  days,  among  the  slaves 
and  fevers  and  crowded  streets  of  a  town  which 
not  even  Burton  had  visited  at  that  early  date. 
And  she  came  to  help,  not  as  a  religious,  but  as 
a  private  lady,  with  her  wealth  and  her  youth, 
and  she  lived  here  for  nigh  on  fifty  years.  She 
brought  the  French  sisters  out,  and  built  the 
first  hospital,  and  visited  over  the  creek,  all  the 
while  the  whipping-post  stood  in  the  slave- 
market,  and  the  turn  of  the  tide  washed  bodies 
on  the  shore.  There  were  no  clean  roads  then, 
and  the  secret  of  the  mosquito  was  not  known. 
Big  swamps  lay  about  the  town,  and  the  filth 
of  an  Arab  and  African  city  without  sanita- 
tion or  supervision  appalled  even  the  naval 
lieutenant  who  merely  walked  once  or  twice 
through  its  streets.  Picture  her  up  and  down 
under  the  blaze  of  the  sky,  enduring  every 
infection  that  the  sun  sucks  up,  in  and  out  of 
close  huts  and  unsavoury  people,  her,  the  rich 
Parisian  girl — and  for  fifty  years.     And  then 


204  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

came  a  change  of  regime,  one  of  those  regret- 
table but  unavoidable  ecclesiastical  changes 
which  seem  always  to  be  human  blunders 
obtruding  into  the  divine  mission ;  but  with  it 
went  her  life.  Her  sisters  were  changed  ;  the 
work  of  fifty  years  had  made  a  groove,  and 
maybe  it  was  well  to  strike  out  a  little  differently. 
But  some  plants  are  too  tender  for  much  up- 
rooting, and  this  had  roots  very  deep  down. 
So  they  were  torn,  and  she  died. 

Standing  by  the  marble  edging  of  her  grave, 
I  raised  my  head  and  looked  out.  The  little 
Calvary  stands  near  the  edge  of  the  enclosure, 
and  beyond  the  hedge  is  a  clear  space  of  grass-land 
for  some  hundred  yards  or  so,  and  then  the  sea. 
It  was  all  so  still,  the  tree-crickets  beginning  in 
the  distance  indeed,  but  not  here.  The  water 
of  the  bay  hardly  moved,  and  the  stars  were 
stealing  out  one  by  one.  At  my  feet  lay  all 
that  was  mortal  of  a  hidden  life  spent,  like  ten 
thousand  more,  out  of  the  central  arena  as  men 
count  things,  and  uncrowned  by  any  of  the 
more  obvious  rewards.  She  did  not  make 
many  converts  ;  I  half  feel  she  did  not  try. 
There  were  others  to  preach  and  shepherd ; 
she,  with  a  broken  alabastron  of  very  precious 
ointment,  would  just  anoint  here   and   there 


*  THE  MOTHER  OF  THE  POOR '  205 

weary  feet  going  swiftly  down  to  the  burial. 
As  in  the  children's  allegory  of  the  Three 
Brethren,  many  caravans  must  have  stolen 
out  of  the  city  by  night  on  their  way  to  the 
land  where  tears  are  dry  for  ever,  laden  with 
treasure  she  had  thought  given  away  in  the 
dark  hut  or  by  the  side  of  the  glaring  road. 
She  never  saw  them  go,  nor  watched  their 
storing  in  the  City  of  the  King ;  for  her  only 
the  weary  days,  the  fret  and  worry,  the  grief 
at  the  heart.  Of  course,  she  got  used  to  it  all 
in  the  end,  but  a  heart  that  is  never  hardened 
cannot  altogether  forget  its  own  pain.  And 
she  did  not  harden  ;  she  had  too  many  children 
for  that.  Only  God  knows  how  many,  and 
only  God  knows  in  what  travail  she  bore  them, 
for  only  God  knows  how  great  is  the  family  of 
the  Poor.  More  than  those  who  lack  money 
figure  there.  ...  So  I  knelt  and  called  her 
Mother. 


XXIV 

*  IT   SHALL   BE    LIGHT  ' 

There  are  commonly  two  kinds  of  ways  of 

looking  at  the  world,  the  one  in  which  every 

incident  seems  to  be  detached,  and  the  other 

in  which  all  follow  in  a  necessary  order.     But 

there  is  a  third  way  which  is  less  common,  and 

by  which  we  are  delivered  from  Agnosticism  on 

the  one  hand  and  sheer  Determinism  on  the 

other.     In  this  way  the  world  goes  on  with 

delightful   and   human   unexpectedness   until, 

quite  suddenly,  we  are  sometimes  aware  of  a 

little  chain  of  incidents  before  us  which  seem 

possessed  of  a  meaning  all  their  own.     One  is 

certain  they  are  set  with  a  purpose.     Like  a 

good  many  chains  laid  across  ways,  they  trip  us 

up.     We  are  startled  into  seeing,  blind  though 

we  mostly  are.     It  is  a  kind  of  vision. 

•  ••••• 

The  other  day  was  more  nearly  akin  to 
November  in  England  than  anything  we  had 
had  before  in  twelve  months.     The  air  was 

206 


aT  SHALL  BE  LIGHT'  207 

damp,  and  at  least  suggestive  of  chill.  A  grey 
fog  smothered  the  native  town  across  the  creek, 
hung  low  under  the  trees  in  the  Cathedral  en- 
closure, and  swirled  seethingly  across  the 
Palace  square.  The  lights  of  the  evening  fires 
burnt  yellow  and  low;  and  although  a  moon 
hung  somewhere  in  the  sky,  it  only  served  to 
darken  the  shadows  and  call  up  a  world  of 
ghosts.  Before  sunset  I  had  gone  to  pay  a  call ; 
and  the  hour  was  shortly  after  six,  with  fast 
paling  sky,  as  I  came  out  into  the  cold,  wet 
breath  of  the  mist. 

I  had  come  from  a  queer  interview,  and 
pondered  it  as  I  walked.  Upstairs,  convales- 
cent after  a  sharp  accident  in  the  works  of  his 
department,  was  a  friend  whose  point  of  view 
is  as  nearly  the  opposite  of  mine  as  the  point 
of  view  can  be  for  two  men  who  name  together 
the  same  Name.  I  respect  him  enormously 
for  his  sound,  practical,  able  life  ;  I  am  amazed 
at  the  subjects  which  interest  his  soul  and  by 
the  arguments  with  which  he  justifies  them. 
If  it  is  not  incredible  to  listen  while  a  full- 
bodied  Anglo-Saxon,  if  ever  there  was  one, 
proves  that  he  is  a  Reubenite  or  a  member  of 
the  half  tribe  of  Manasseh  by  the  evidence  of 
Zephaniah  or  Habakkuk,  or  finds  the  Anglo- 


208  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

Egyptian  policy  in  an  obscure  chapter  of 
Ezekiel,  or  places  a  thousand-year  reign  of  our 
Lord  somewhere  in  the  next  decade  on  the 
evidence  of  the  author  of  Daniel,  then  there  is 
nothing  wonderful  in  the  world.  But  he  had 
done  all  these.  He  had,  further,  referred  to  a 
certain  religious  paper  which  I  confess  to  read- 
ing for  even  flippant  purposes  as  '  that  dis- 
tinctly sound  paper  ' ;  and,  in  a  word,  he  had 
left  me  bewildered  that  we  two  ordinary, 
reasonable,  fairly  intelligent  Englishmen  could 
be  so  different  in  judgment  and  credibility, 
and  live. 

But  I  had  not  come  away  annoyed ;  far 
from  it.  Instead,  deferring  to  my  ministry 
(although  my  superior  in  every  way)  with  a 
habitual  courtesy  so  gentle  that  I  am  humiliated 
by  it,  we  had  closed  with  extempore  prayer,  I 
leading  till  we  came  to  the  Throne  hand  in 
hand  with  the  '  Our  Father.'  And  now  I  was 
in  the  street,  warm  with  a  sense  of  brother- 
liness,  bewildered  by  a  feeling  of  impotence, 
sad  that  the  Truth  seemed  so  far. 

But  the  end  of  a  chain  was  in  my  hand,  and 
in  a  few  breathless  minutes  I  picked  up  the 
links  one  by  one.  First,  arrestingly,  the  light 
streamed  from  the  doorway  of  a  mosque  a 


aT  SHALL  BE  LIGHT'  209 

hundred  yards  up  the  street.  In  the  fog  I 
peered  through  to  the  warmth  within,  and  in 
so  short  a  space  caught  the  details  of  the 
picture — ^the  wide  mat-spread  door,  the  spans 
of  bulbous-headed  pillars,  the  carved  niche 
Mecca-wards  before  which  the  line  of  white- 
robed  turbaned  Arabs  swayed  and  gesticu- 
lated to  the  guttural  crying  of  their  leader  after 
the  manner  of  their  Way.  A  little  fellow  behind 
a  pillar  at  the  end  of  the  line  was  trying  to 
imitate  his  father,  and  two  sprawled  lazily 
with  a  dull  indifference  against  the  farther 
door.  A  new  speculation  wound  its  way  into 
my  thought,  and  the  fog  wrapped  me  round.  .  .  , 
A  couple  of  minutes,  and  wide-flung  doors 
again  held  my  steps.  I  looked  up  a  flight  of 
marble  stairs  to  a  divided  entrance  where 
stands  a  carved  Christ  with  outspread  hands, 
and  through  to  a  wide  nave,  in  semi-darkness, 
fairly  full  of  worshippers.  Beyond,  a  garish 
chancel  held  an  altar  lit  by  scores  of  candles, 
seen  through  whose  sheen  the  Virgin  behind, 
in  blue  and  gold,  held  out  the  Child.  Bene- 
diction was  nearing  the  supreme  moment. 
With  that  kind  of  dignity  which  seems  to  be 
the  prerogative  of  Rome,  a  priest  was  climb- 
ing a  short  humiliating  ladder  to  reach  the 


210  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

monstrance,  while  a  thin  line  of  incense  went 
up  in  a  stillness  that  was  very  real.  He  came 
down  and  turned,  and  showed  us  what  he  held. 
.  •  .  It  was  indeed  a  curious  thing  to  see  from 
the  street  of  a  Mohammedan  town,  and  their 
method  is  by  no  means  our  own ;  but  I  was  a 
man  christened  and  this  was  a  Christian  church. 
So  I  knelt  briefly  within  the  iron  gates.  But 
then,  in  a  harsh  roar,  an  incredible  choir,  hid 
in  a  gallery  above  me,  began  to  murder 
*Adoremus,'  and  every  anti-Latin  sense  came 
back  to  me.     I  hurried  away. 

Half  a  dozen  twisted  dripping  streets  lay 
between  me  and  the  Cathedral  enclosure. 
Avoiding  children  here  and  goats  there,  it  is 
not  easy  to  think,  the  more  so  when  every 
corner  holds  a  new  wonder  and  often  a  new 
sorrow.  There  are  white  women  at  a  bar  on 
the  way,  a  squalid  tumble  of  Hindi  houses  just 
beyond,  and  a  house  of  the  surias  of  a  late 
nobility  a  little  nearer  home.  But  as  I  passed 
all  these  it  dawned  on  me  that  this  was  the 
evening  hour  of  prayer,  and  that  I  was  hearing 
something  of  the  cries  which  this  city  sends 
up  through  the  night  against  the  face  of  God. 
The  despair  of  it!  This  wild,  confused,  and 
tractless  world,   how  hard  for  feet  to  tread 


ax  SHALL  BE  LIGHT'  211 

or  souls  to  love  !  What  can  God  make  of 
the  appalling  muddle,  the  blind  folly,  of  our 
tragedy  ? 

I  turned  in  under  the  scarlet  acacia  whose 
gaunt  bole  gleamed  coldly  in  the  dank  air,  and 
realised  I  was  late  for  Even-song.  Well,  I 
was  too  sad  to  care  in  any  case.  And  then 
God  put  the  last  link  into  my  hand,  and  I  saw 
that  He  had  set  a  chain  before  my  way. 

They  were  singing  in  the  big  shell  of  a  church 
which  shelters  the  grave  of  him  to  whom  we 
in  the  Mission  owe  so  much.  The  vowelled 
Swahili  came  softly  to  the  plain  Gregorian  that 
I  unreasonably  tire  of  so  often,  and  for  a  few 
seconds  it  was  the  cadences  only  that  one 
heard.  Then,  like  a  silver  bell,  one  sentence 
leaped  out  clear,  ringing  through  a  lost  weary 
world  as  it  has  ever  rung  since  Mary's  lips 
broke  into  song  at  the  first  hailing  of  her  Mother- 
hood. As  for  me,  I  stood  there  in  the  mist  and 
damp,  and  repeated  the  message  again  and 
again.  In  a  little  I  had  found  my  way  inside 
the  three  parts  empty  church  (for  it  was  only 
an  ordinary  daily  service),  and  I  was  looking  up 
to  the  rising  altar  set  with  a  cross,  whereon  is 
depicted  a  Lamb  as  it  had  been  slain— although 
I  only  knew  it  to  be  there,  for  it  is  not  visible 


212  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

from  the  back.     But  even  that  is  a  parable. 
And  so  I  gripped  the  credal  words  when  their 

turn  came,  and  found  a  way  to  faith. 

...... 

Perhaps  it  is  not  necessary  to  write  Mary's 
words;  to  me  the  whole  'Magnificat'  centres 
round  them ;  but  they  are  these  :  '  His  mercy 
is  on  them  that  fear  Him  throughout  all  genera- 
tions.^ 


XXV 

IN   FESTA 

If  one  thing  more  than  another  can  help 
towards  a  reahsation  on  earth  of  the  true  mean- 
ing of  the  credal  word  '  CathoHc,'  it  is  to  spend 
a  Festival  or  two  in  Africa ;  and  it  is  borne  in 
upon  me,  as  this  Christmas  concludes,  that  I 
have  been  fortunate  to  have  had  that  experi- 
ence this  year.  Christmas  and  Easter,  or 
Easter  and  Christmas  as  it  was  to  me,  present 
the  round  of  Christian  experience ;  and  I  have 
seen  them  as  a  real  part  of  the  experience  of 
a  miniature  Christian  Church,  however  new 
and  raw  that  Church  may  be.  I  recollect  that 
nine  months  ago  it  was  my  lot  to  give  the 
Passion  Services  of  Holy  Week  to  the  sisters, 
and  join  in  the  worship  of  a  village  church 
in  the  great  Thanksgiving  on  Easter  Day. 
That  wonderful  morning  I  was  up  before  the 
dawn  and  in  the  Convent  chapel ;  but  at  the 
first  hour  of  the  day,  as  Africa  counts  time, 

218 


214  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

we  all  forgathered  in  the  church  of  the 
village  for  the  Lord's  own  Service  where  the 
mind  of  the  early  Church  so  soon  placed  it — 
with  that  God-given  instinct  which  recog- 
nised that  it  was  no  memorial  of  a  supper,  but 
a  sacrifice  crowned  and  consummated  in  the 
dawn  of  the  first  Easter.  The  simple  dark 
building  was  full,  and  with  such  a  congrega- 
tion !  First,  the  little  procession  behind  a 
cross  that  is  the  real  symbol  of  liberty  out 
here ;  then  the  hearty,  fervent,  unaccom- 
panied singing ;  then  the  '  dismissal  of  the 
catechumens,'  which  seems  to  carry  one  back 
through  the  centuries  so  strangely  at  first ; 
then  that  immemorial  *Sursum  Corda'  which 
has  been  sung  by  all  the  saints  in  all  the  cen- 
turies in  all  lands  ;  and  then  the  Communion. 
They  moved  slowly  in  two  streams  past  me, 
those  black  faces,  old  men  and  women  who 
have  themselves  known  the  horrors  of  the 
slave-gang,  slave-market,  and  whipping-post ; 
younger  people  to  whom  '  other  gods '  are 
more  than  the  legend  that  they  are  to  us  ;  and 
children  who  have  been  saved,  in  some  degree 
at  least,  a  childhood  as  terrible  as  heathen 
childhood  is  known  to  be.  And  they  knelt  to 
receive  at  the  hands  of  a  priest,  himself  once 


IN  FESTA  215 

a  slave,  that  same  Sacrament  which  one's 
friends  were  receiving  in  century-old  churches 
so  far  away.  Here  many  old  bent  men 
and  women  bear  in  their  bodies  the  fearful 
marks  of  the  days  when  they  sat  '  in  dark- 
ness and  in  the  shadow  of  death/  and  I 
think  Another,  marked  and  scarred,  saw  some- 
thing of  the  travail  of  His  soul  in  them  and 
was  glad. 

It  was  with  much  of  that  feeling  that  I  wit- 
nessed on  the  Eve  of  Good  Friday  a  scene 
which  impressed  itself  vividly  upon  me.  In  a 
hut  on  this  plantation  there  had  been  for  some 
time  an  old  leper-man,  dying  very  slowly  and 
very  painfully.  The  English  padre  used  to 
visit  him  from  day  to  day  and  come  back  with 
his  story — the  dark  hut,  the  awful  sickness 
with  its  terrible  concomitants,  and  the  steady 
faith  of  that  old  negro.  At  last  he  could 
neither  move  nor  be  moved,  and  the  disease 
had  played  ghastly  havoc  with  his  face  and 
throat ;  but  even  so  he  wanted  the  Communion 
of  his  Lord.  It  was  sickening  work  even  to 
enter  the  hut,  but  his  wife,  whom  heathen 
custom  bade  abandon  him  months  ago,  hung 
on  bravely  to  the  last.  A  sister  dressed  his 
wounds,  and  I  have  seen  her  white  face  as  she 


216  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

came  away ;  and  on  Maundy  Thursday  God 
gave  him  peace.  Natives  who  would  not,  as 
heathen,  have  touched  the  body,  wound  it  in 
cloths  and  carried  it  to  the  grave ;  and  as  we 
stood  around,  under  the  hot  tropical  sun,  one  felt 
that  the  '  hope  '  was  more  '  sure  and  certain  ' 
for  us  all  than  ever  one  had  felt  it  to  be  before. 
God  knows  our  Christians  are  not  perfect ;  how 
should  they  be  who  were  born  in  savagery  and 
dragged  to  civilisation  in  slave-chains  ?  But 
it  is  in  Africa  that  you  catch  your  breath  with 
awe  now  and  again  at  the  nearness  of  the  God 
of  the  whole  earth. 

And  now  there  has  been  the  Christmas 
experience  to  set  over  against  the  Easter,  a 
Christmas  more  intelligible  by  reason  of  the 
months  that  have  separated  them.  Again  it 
was  in  the  village  that  the  Feast  began  for  me, 
again  before  dawn  like  Silvia  on  her  pilgrimage 
to  Jerusalem,  and  again  in  the  Convent  chapel. 
The  little  sanctuary  was  beautifully  decorated 
with  tall  cocoa-palm  branches  against  the 
white  Oriental  pillars,  and  there  were  banks  of 
alamander,  oleander,  and  hibiscus  on  and 
about  the  stately  altar  against  the  hangings 
which  the  community  has  itself  painted.  One 
of  the  sisters  has  a  lovely  voice,  and  as  it  rang 


IN  FESTA  217 

out  at  Vespers  of  the  Eve  in  that  carol  of  the 
silver  bells,  it  seemed  as  if  music  was  pealing 
all  about  us  for  the  unveiling  of  a  shrine.  And 
so  the  sun  set  on  a  perfect  evening,  and  half 
an  hour  before  midnight,  as  I  came  out  of  the 
clergy-house,  the  moon  rode  high  in  a  clear 
sky,  and  the  woods  stretched  away  on  either 
side  in  that  bewildering  fantasy  of  light  and 
shadow  which  only  moonlight  can  produce. 
No  one  who  has  seen  them  ever  forgets  the 
dead  black  tree-trunks  and  the  silver-glisten- 
ing palm-fronds  of  an  African  moon-lit  night. 
And  right  ahead  the  little  chapel  glowed  with 
light.  It  streamed  yellow  and  ruddy  from 
the  open  sacristy  door,  with  the  sister's  shadow, 
as  she  prepared  for  the  service,  coming  and 
going  across  it ;  and  then  the  bells  rang  out. 
I  stood  at  the  door  and  watched  the  brown 
folks  come  up,  the  women  walking,  close 
wrapped  in  their  graceful  native  dress,  with 
that  stately  carriage  born  of  labour  with  the 
water  pots  which  must  have  been  Mary's  on 
that  first  night.  And  then  we  went  in,  and 
the  Service  of  the  Centuries  began.  The 
language  of  the  slave  for  the  worship  of 
the  Manger-born — so  it  came  to  me  when 
the  Breaking  and  Pouring  were  complete,  and 


218  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

the    hushed    chant    came    up    in    waves    of 

prayer  : 

*  Njooni  tumwabudu, 
Njooni  tumwabudu, 
Njooni  tumwabudu  Yesu  Kristu.' 

(*  O  come,  let  us  adore  Him,  Christ  the  Lord.') 

At  5.45  I  was  on  my  way  to  town  for  the  big 
sung  Eucharist — for  that  name  of  thanksgiving 
seems  to  fit  best  at  Christmas— in  the  Cathedral. 
Before  I  left  the  village  street  a  presage  of 
what  was  to  be  the  wettest  Christmas  any  one 
can  remember  in  the  island  was  given  to  me, 
for  white  rain  clouds  came  rolling  up  over  a 
leaden  sea,  and  the  thick  heavy  drops  fell 
pattering  on  the  dark  mangoes  which  line  the 
road.  I  was  drenched  before  the  creek  came 
into  view,  but  the  native  town  across  its  water 
looked  so  beautiful  that  I  nearly  forgot  the 
wet.  A  grey-blue  mist  hung  about  the  brown 
and  black  of  the  huts,  and  behind  the  palms 
the  sky  was  still  pearl  in  the  morning  light  far 
out  and  away  to  the  north.  The  people  came 
splendidly,  despite  the  weather.  The  Cathedral 
seemed  full,  and  the  singing  carried  you  away. 
An  African  priest  preached— a  short  ringing 
sermon,  with  his  back  to  the  whipping -post 
altar  and  the  grave  of  the  pioneer  bishop— and 


IN  FESTA  219 

sang  the  service  extraordinarily  well,  too.  Our 
Inueni  Mioyo  rang  out  before  Europe  heard 
the  invitation  to  lift  up  the  heart,  but  we 
ushered  in  the  Birthday  well  here,  in  Moham- 
medan Africa.  It  is  easy  for  a  missionary  to 
give  way  to  sentiment,  and  it  is,  doubtless,  a 
heinous  crime  ;  but  that  again  is  one  of  the 
things  I  shall  never  forget— the  black-faced 
and  bare-footed  African,  richly  robed  in  white 
as  the  early  Church  saw  fitting  so  many  cen- 
turies ago,  standing  out  there  against  the 
spreading  arms  of  the  Cross,  with  his  own  hands 
uplifted,  and  his  voice  singing  the  cadences  of 
the  rich  Swahili,  very  purely,  very  low  : 

*  Na  tumshukuru  Bwana  Mungu  Wetu.' 
(*  Let  us  give  thanks  unto  our  Lord  God.') 

Several  have  asked  me  from  time  to  time  if 
our  converts  are  successes  or  failures ;  and, 
although  I  know  now  as  strangers  do  not 
guess,  how  incredibly  weak  they  are,  there  is 
a  very  revolutionary  answer  which  I  might 
give  them.  At  8.30  that  day— ten  minutes 
after  the  black  folk  had  sung  their  last  carol— 
I  celebrated  for  the  thirty  odd  white  people 
of  the  one  hundred  and  twenty  in  town  who 
cared  to  remember  the  birthday  of  our  Lord. 


220  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

It  was  a  very  happy  and  holy  service,  but  very 
different.  Of  course,  one  must  not  judge,  and 
our  Lord  knows  how  hard  it  is  for  a  European 
to  keep  faith  and  penitence  anywhere  in  these 
days,  especially  in  Africa ;  but  the  contrast 
between  the  services  was  very  noticeable,  and 
if  human  judgments  are  asked  for,  there  can 
be  no  doubt  as  to  this.  ...  At  9.30  we  white 
people  all  breakfasted  together — a  very  jolly 
party  —  and  at  10  a  very  fair  congregation, 
despite  the  rain,  met  to  sing  Morning  Prayer 
and  hear  a  short  sermon.  It  was  upon  St. 
Luke  ii.  16  :  '  They  found  Mary,  and  Joseph, 
and  the  Babe  lying  in  the  manger,' — ^that 
Eternal  Family  into  which  every  son  of  man 
must  be  born  if  he  would  be  saved ;  that 
Golden  Circle,  perfect  from  the  first,  yet  ever 
widening  with  the  ages. 

The  rain  poured  down  all  the  day,  and  most 
of  the  night,  and  all  St.  Stephen's  Day  too, 
and,  needless  to  say,  we  had  none  of  good  King 
Wenceslaus'  snow  to  learn  saintship  in  !  Still, 
I  suppose  what  we  had  was  an  excellent  dis- 
cipline ;  and  as  we  waded  from  the  High 
School  down  what  had  been  a  street  and  was 
now  a  torrent,  or  thought  enviously,  on  our 
way  to  the  Agency  to  dinner,  of  those  happy 


IN  FESTA  221 

luxurious  souls  who  owned  rickshaws,  we  tried 
to  cheer  ourselves  with  the  reflection  that 
probably  ours  was  a  more  English  Christmas 
than  it  would  have  been  if  it  had  been  '  season- 
able.' I  do  not  think  that  I  had  better  say- 
much  about  the  festivities  ;  but  it  is  a  peace- 
ful recollection  that  our  turkey  was  peculiarly 
tender,  that  the  Christmas  pudding  flamed  half- 
way round  the  table,  and  that  the  crackers 
were  not  spoiled  by  the  damp  !  His  Honour 
the  Judge  played  Pan-pipes  with  a  red  liberty 
cap  on  the  back  of  his  head,  and  the  wife  of 
the  First  Minister  looked  perfectly  charming 
as  a  Turkish  lady  of  fashion  at  a  dance  next 
day.  The  Sultan  was  courtly  and  suave ;  and 
the  rich  robes  of  the  Arabs,  together  with  the 
fancy  dress  of  the  company,  as  one  looked  at 
them  from  the  balcony  which  projects  into  the 
dark  garden,  made  a  vivid  picture  with  which 
to  close  the  festa. 

What  a  panorama  is  life  !  But— it  is  not 
harsh— perhaps  some  black  mother  in  a  half- 
soaked  hut  among  the  trees  of  the  island,  as 
she  felt  baby  lips  at  her  breast,  stood  closest  to 
the  Heart  of  the  King  as  He  pondered  His 
recollections. 


XXVI 

THE    COMING   KINGDOM 

That  first  impressions  have  a  value  all  their 
own  is  a  commonplace  of  travel,  the  danger 
being  a  tendency  to  forget  that  the  new-comer 
must  be  content  with  impressions.  It  has, 
indeed,  become  a  classical  warning  that  whereas 
intuitive  judgments  are  frequently  right,  the 
reasons  by  which  we  try  to  support  them  are 
usually  wrong,  and  that  hence  suggestions  for 
reforms  based  upon  our  early  judgments  ought 
to  be  reserved  until  some  few  years  have  passed 
over  us.  But  the  first  impression,  as  an  im- 
pression, is  always  valuable,  and  perhaps  the 
more  so  if  it  be  a  kind  of  secondary  '  first 
impression.'  A  visitor  whose  stay  in  a  mission 
is  limited  to  a  few  weeks  often  forms  an  entirely 
erroneous  conception  of  the  work  that  is  being 
done,  unless  he  is  in  a  position  to  acquire  more 
authoritative  information  than  is  possible  for 
most  men ;  while  most  new-comers  at  the  end 
of  a  few  months  would  give  anything  but  a 

222 


THE  COMING  KINGDOM  223 

rosy  account  of  missionary  activity.  And  this 
is  natural.  The  chance  visitor  is  impressed 
by  the  mere  sight  of  black  men  in  church,  and 
native  ministers  in  the  sanctuary.  The  new- 
comer, on  the  contrary,  has  to  pass  through  a 
stage  of  helplessness,  while  he,  whose  service 
was  active  at  home,  must  stand  by  and  do 
nothing  but  learn  a  wearisome  language,  and 
contrast  foreign  and  home  methods.  He  has  to 
learn,  too,  that  missionaries  are  no  better  than 
other  people,  and  that,  on  the  whole,  miracles 
are  not  more  common  abroad  than  they  are 
at  home.  Somehow  this  awakening  to  reality, 
foolish  as  it  is  not  to  be  prepared  for  it,  is  a 
bitter  time  to  the  young  missionary.  We  ought, 
surely,  to  prepare  him  more  carefully  for  it. 

But  this  is  not  the  real  '  first  impression.' 
This  is  merely  the  experience  which  belongs  to 
the  adaptation  of  a  man's  personality  to  his 
new  environment.  It  is  the  finding  of  the  new 
shoes,  which  pinch  because  of  the  very  things 
which  made  them  so  beautiful  when  first  they 
were  put  on!  The  real  'first  impression,' 
which  this  chapter  is  an  attempt  to  express,  is 
perhaps  only  found  when,  a  little  more  attune 
to  his  surroundings,  while  as  yet  not  so  far 
removed  from  the  old  as  to  forget  the  contrast, 


224  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

the  new-comer  is  able  to  weigh,  as  others  cannot, 
the  soUdity  of  the  past  and  the  hope  of  the 
future.  Men  who  have  been  many  years  in 
the  field  bend  a  little  beneath  the  care  of  the 
churches,  and  see  the  stars  less  readily.  It 
must  be  so.  They  told  themselves  ten  years 
ago  that  it  was  natural  for  these  converts  to 
fail,  considering  that  they  have  inherited  the 
burden  of  heathen  centuries,  and  have  been 
dragged  to  civilisation  in  slave-chains ;  but 
ten  years  seems  long  except  to  Him  who  sitteth 
above  the  water-floods,  and  older  missionaries 
may  be  forgiven  if  they  lapse  sometimes  into 
the  ways  of  arm-chair  critics.  Even  they 
forget  sometimes  that  the  Church  is  very  nearly 
two  thousand  years  old ;  that  it  took  three 
centuries  to  conquer  even  on  the  shores  of  the 
Mediterranean;  and  that  the  Canons  of  the 
English  Church,  many  years  after  Augustine, 
reveal  amazing  blemishes.  And  it  is  just 
because  the  other  side  sometimes  needs  em- 
phasising that  these  words  are  written ;  because, 
to  the  writer,  one  kindling  glowing  fact  seems 
more  true  than  ever  it  did  in  England  ;  because 
that  '  the  Lord  God  omnipotent  reigneth  '  is 
here  not  only  a  dim  hope  grasped  by  faith,  but 
a  word  of  conquest  blazoned  in  the  heavens. 


THE  COMING  KINGDOM  225 

This  is  a  Mohammedan  city,  and  as  you  walk 
through  its  streets  you  cannot  fail  to  realise 
it.  There  are  mosques  at  every  turn,  and  small 
green  tickets,  recently  affixed  by  the  Govern- 
ment to  all  mosque  property,  remind  you  that 
religion  is  richly  endowed.  Then,  again,  the 
very  Government  is  outwardly  Mohammedan, 
and  such  is  the  elasticity  of  the  British  political 
conscience  that  it  can  on  Sunday,  as  Christian, 
declare  its  faith  in  the  Life  and  Passion  of  our 
Lord,  and  on  Monday,  as  Mohammedan,  set 
up  schools  with  a  curriculum  which  embraces 
the  teaching  of  the  Koran,  whose  plain  words 
give  the  Apostles'  Creed  the  lie.  But  despite 
all  this  and  very  much  more,  despite  all  that 
we  are  told  (and  all  that  is  true)  about  forward 
movements  in  Islam,  nothing  is  more  abso- 
lutely sure  than  the  break-up  of  Mohammedan- 
ism as  a  religion.  It  is  already  in  its  death 
throes.  It  has  entered  on  a  conflict  not  only 
with  organised  Christianity,  but  with  that 
civilisation  which  has  been  born  of  Christianity, 
and  which  is  proving  its  origin  in  the  face  of 
the  critics  by  doing  the  works  of  Christianity 
at  every  turn.  Of  the  issue  of  that  conflict 
there  is  no  doubt.  Like  every  other  conflict, 
it   will   have   unexpected   developments,    and 


226  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

like  every  other  conflict,  there  will  be  loss  and 
blood  and  tears ;  but  already  the  Crescent 
wavers  before  the  Cross.  Some  who  see  the 
wavering  do  not  see  the  Cross ;  but  we  see, 
and  it  is  just  this  victory  of  faithful  seeing  which 
has  ever  overcome  the  world. 

Let  us  look  at  it.  It  is  Ramadhan  here, 
in  a  Mohammedan  city,  and  however  poor  a 
Moslem's  faith  may  be,  if  he  is  a  Moslem  at  all, 
he  keeps  Ramadhan.  No  wonder,  then,  that 
the  old  religious  leaders  of  the  town  are  troubled 
when  one  high  Mohammedan  authority  declares 
that  only  4  per  cent,  of  the  city  has  kept  the 
Fast  this  year,  and  the  highest  authority  of 
them  all  sets  the  figure  at  2  per  cent.  !  It  is 
the  young  men  who  will  not  keep  it.  If  one 
stands  on  the  bridge  that  leads  from  the  city 
to  the  country,  one  can  see  each  morning 
young  Arabs  by  the  hundred  going  out  into 
the  woods  for  the  day  to  escape  observation. 
They  will  come  back  in  time  to  join  in  the 
ceremonies  of  the  evening  ritual,  because  as 
yet  they  are  not  prepared  to  break  so  entirely 
with  the  past ;  but  the  spirit  of  Islam  is  no 
longer  in  them.  And  why  ?  The  answer  is 
absolutely  simple.  It  is  just  that  the  fever 
of  the  West  is  in  their  veins,  and  that  they 
know  its  doom  is  on  the  old  order  of  things. 


THE  COMING  KINGDOM  227 

Very  many  are,  of  course,  intoxicated  with 
the  hberty  and  licence  of  the  West.  Others 
are  well  aware  that  learning  and  progress  is  of 
the  West,  and,  in  reality,  of  the  West  alone. 
Others  still  are  feeling  that  truth  is  of  the  West, 
and  in  their  heart  of  hearts  they  know  that  the 
crudities  of  popular  Mohammedanism,  as  well 
as  the  manifest  absurdities  of  the  official  faith, 
cannot  be  held  by  instructed  men.^  It  is  the 
coming  of  learning  that  has  done  it.  The 
young  Arab  of  to-day  not  only  knows  the 
English  tongue,  but  also  reads  English  papers, 
and  thinks  in  English  terms.  One  such, 
during  a  recent  lecture,  showed  entire  famili- 
arity with  the  decisions  of  the  Thompson- 
Bannister  case,  and  inquired  of  the  precise 
obligation  to  Protestantism,  as  opposed  to 
Catholicity,  which  King  George  inherits  by 
reason  of  the  Act  of  Settlement !  And  to  such 
men,  that  Mohammed  split  the  moon,  and 
underwent  an  angelical  surgical  operation  for 
the  removal  of  original  sin,  is  precisely  the 
rubbish  that  it  is  to  us.  The  only  trouble  is 
that  so  many  Moslems,  here  at  least,  know  so 
little  about  their  own  faith ;  but  even  that 
they  are  learning  from  Western  sources.     And 

*  Since  writing  the  above,  a  young  modern  Arab,  of  his  own 
initiative,  used  almost  precisely  these  words  to  me. 


228  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

they  will  learn.  The  son  of  a  prominent  Arab 
has  recently  returned  from  an  education  on 
Western  lines  in  Beyrout ;  he  declines  to 
attend  his  father's  mosque.  An  old  relation 
of  high  rank,  fearful  at  this,  vows  that  his 
grandchildren  shall  not  learn  English  nor 
English  ways — but  how  will  he  stop  them  ?  It 
is  all  very  well  to  speak  of  Eastern  culture  and 
science,  but  practically  it  is  as  nothing  against 
the  learning  of  the  West.  The  West  has  power, 
and  practical  things,  and  money.  Rightly  or 
wrongly,  it  is  El  Dorado  to  the  young  Eastern, 
and  you  cannot  keep  him  from  those  riches. 
Personally,  I  believe  that  he  is  right.  Argue 
as  you  will,  the  East  has  stored  its  treasures 
these  many  centuries,  and  they  are  of  ancient 
things.  It  is  the  West  that  has  been  alive. 
The  West  has  parcelled  the  world  and  divided 
its  riches,  and  the  East  will  only  win  them 
back  with  Western  tools.  Japan,  China,  and, 
in  a  great  measure,  India,  know  it  well,  for 
the  former  have  proved  it  true,  and  the  dead 
hand  of  Mohammed  cannot  any  longer  hold 
back  the  Moslem  world. 

The  great  unappreciated  factor  in  the  awaken- 
ing of  the  East  is  the  effect  of  the  dominance 
of  Western  influence  here  in  the  heart  of  the 
East  itself.     This  city,  for  example,  is  itself,  to 


THE  COMING  KINGDOM  229 

the  young  Arab,  largely  European  to-day.  His 
learning  takes  him  into  Government  service, 
into  commercial  undertakings,  or  into  the 
courts ;  and  in  these  days  he  must  earn  his 
living  or  starve,  and  in  these  ways  he  must  do 
it.  But  what  then  ?  At  the  head  of  every 
department  stands  the  European,  with 
Western  standards  and  methods.  To  get  on 
he  must  know  English.  English  judges  are 
supreme  in  the  courts,  and  already  we  see  the 
beginnings  of  the  modification  of  Moslem  law. 
The  Moslem  marriage  laws,  for  example,  have  re- 
ligious sanction,  are  unalterably  fixed  by  the  lusts 
of  a  prophet  thirteen  hundred  years  dead,  and 
regard  women  solely  as  the  slaves  of  men's  lust. 
How  can  an  English  judge,  however  much  he 
may  regard  himself  as  fettered  by  his  technical 
position  as  a  member  of  a  Mohammedan 
administration,  serve  laws  such  as  these  ? 
He  cannot,  and  he  does  not.  He  modifies 
them,  and  his  modifications  are  an  object- 
lesson  to  the  young  officials.  With  opening 
eyes  they  see  still  more.  They  see  what  is  the 
relationship  of  the  decent  Englishman  to  his 
wife.  They  watch  the  Western  manners  at 
some  Agency  function.  They  attend  Western 
plays  performed  by  amateurs  among  the 
European  colony.     Their  rich  men  buy  motor- 


280  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

cars,  drink  wines,  and  copy  our  manners.  The 
Sultan  motors  abroad  among  his  subjects  with 
his  one  wife  and  their  Uttle  son  as  an  EngUsh 
gentleman  might  do.  The  telephone,  a  type- 
writer, and  pictures  are  in  his  study,  and  he 
is  no  feckless  youth,  but  a  middle-aged  man, 
Westernised  so  far  (for  it  comes  to  this)  that 
he  is  wise  enough  to  retain  his  rich  and  courtly 
Arab  dress.  The  crowds  in  the  palace  square 
have  the  daily  telegrams  read  out  to  them. 
The  storming  of  Tripoli,  the  resignation  of 
the  Turkish  Cabinet,  or  the  doings  at  Delhi, 
leave  them  breathless  with  astonishment.  The 
picture-shops,  with  gaudy  cartoons  of  the  war, 
are  thronged  every  day.  If  Constantinople 
falls,  or  if  Turkey  becomes  a  republic,  our 
world  will  rock  yet  more— none  can  say  how 
much.  And  meanwhile  our  young  men  peti- 
tion for  compulsory  education,  read  the  Weekly 
Times,  form  themselves  into  clubs,  and  keep 
Ramadhan  in  the  depths  of  the  woods  ! 

It  is  when  one  turns  to  the  Christian  Church, 
even  here,  that  the  amazing  reverse  of  the 
picture  appears.  The  element  which  suggests 
itself  is  stability,  and  it  is  suggested  in  such  an 
amazing  number  of  ways.  Look  at  the  lan- 
guage. It  is  the  Mission  that  has  considered 
it  scientifically,   and  prepared  the  grammars 


THE  COMING  KINGDOM  231 

and  '  readers/  so  that  now  in  this  SwahiU- 
speaking  country  the  best  Swahili  is  the 
SwahiH  of  the  Prayer-Book  and  the  Bible. 
There  is  only  one  marriage  law,  plain  and 
rigid,  in  the  country,  and  that  is  the  Christian. 
There  are  only  two  imposing  religious  buildings, 
and  they  are  the  Christian  cathedrals.  There 
is  only  one  effort  being  made  to  train  religious 
tieachers  along  lines  fearlessly  open  to  modern 
knowledge,  and  that  is  the  Christian.  There 
is  only  one  literature  flooding  even  Hindi  clubs, 
and  that  is  the  English  and  Christian— for 
even  where  it  is  not  orthodoxly  Christian,  it  is 
Christian  in  moral  and  ethical  tone.  The 
Christian  Church  itself,  too,  is  like  a  rock  amid 
these  floods.  Day  by  day  the  Church's  Liturgy 
is  said  in  Christian  sanctuaries  as  if  Mohammed 
had  never  been  born.  It  is  said  by  an  in- 
structed native  ministry,  which  one  feels  in- 
stinctively has  come  to  stay.  And  even  more 
manifestations  of  Christ's  religion,  so  impotent 
and  foolish  to  the  world,  so  revolutionary  and 
dynamic  to  the  historian,  and  so  sublime  and 
real  to  the  Christian,  are  here  at  work.  Near 
this  big  city,  in  a  Christian  village,  at  this  very 
hour,  a  little  band  of  women  are  pledged  to  a 
life  of  prayer.  They  are  no  longer  '  of  England,' 
for  their  gaze,   for  living  and  for  dying,   is 


232  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

towards  Africa.  They  are  '  of  the  Sacred 
Passion,'  Hnked  to  that  incredible  fooHshness 
of  Calvary  which  has  turned  the  world  upside 
down.  And  these  will  do  it ;  it  is  the  lesson 
of  history,  of  philosophy,  of  faith.  What  has 
Mohammed  to  set  against  that  bewildering 
piety  of  surrender,  that  transcendental  obstinacy 
of  faith  ? 

Or,  again,  the  Apostolate  is  here.  If  I  were 
an  agnostic  I  should  fear  bishops  !  In  England 
it  is  sometimes  our  custom  to  make  light  of 
them,  but  after  all  is  said  and  done,  did  ever 
army  achieve  conquests  like  those  of  the  three- 
fold ministry  of  the  Catholic  Church  ?  To  the 
Catholic  mind,  the  bishop  is  the  centre  of 
obedience  and  unity ;  linked  about  him  go  all 
those  forces  which  the  alchemy  of  Christianity 
has  wrested  somehow  from  the  world ;  and 
this  apart  from  his  claim  to  be,  in  the  Ignatian 
phrase,  '  as  Jesus  Christ.'  It  is  surely  a  re- 
markable thing  that  the  Episcopate  has  clung 
to  lands  with  a  pertinacity  indifferent  to  refor- 
mations, reactions,  or  suppressions.  And  here 
it  is  in  East  Africa.  Behind  it  is  the  driving 
force  of  a  priesthood  which  has  no  need  to  be 
ashamed.     It  was  planned  for  conquest. 

It  may  be  urged  against  all  this  that  Christi- 
anity is  itself  divided;    and  that  even  here. 


THE  COMING  KINGDOM  283 

among  some  few  score  white  rulers  professing 
the  Christian  name,  you  have  enemies  and 
divisions.  Nor  may  it  be  denied.  As  we 
count  up  the  white  congregation,  Sunday  by 
Sunday,  we  sometimes  fear.  We  are  not  less 
than  in  other  places ;  indeed,  we  show  an 
excellent  average ;  but  what  of  this  ?  Is  not 
historic  Christianity  in  a  bad  way  every- 
where ? 

Sir  H.  Johnston  has  pointed  out  recently  in 
The  East  and  the  West  that  it  is  good  for  the 
clergy  to  see  service  abroad,  as  it  enlarges  their 
outlook.  It  seems  to  me  that  he  is  entirely 
right.  For  it  is  here,  on  the  fringe  of  things, 
that  the  amazing  weakness  of  the  opposition 
to  orthodox  Christianity  seems  so  plain.  One 
has  only  got  to  read  the  books  which  influence 
anti-Christian  thought  among  average  English- 
men to  see  it.  One  such  passed  into  my  hands 
the  other  day,  which  only  showed  with  unmis- 
takable clearness  that  its  author  was  opposing 
a  Christianity  that  was  a  chimera  of  his  own 
imagination,  and  basing  his  opposition  upon 
incredible  ignorance.^  He  can  actually  write 
that  Hinduism,  Judaism,  Mohammedanism, 
and  Buddhism  have  been  '  untouched '  by 
Christ  as  they  have  been  '  untouched  '  by  one 

1  The  Hearts  of  Men,  by  H.  Fielding. 


284  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

another !  Christ  has  made  no  more  impres- 
sion on  China  than  Buddha  on  Europe  !  In  a 
word,  the  world's  rehgions  are  ahke,  stagnant 
and  passing.  And  this  with  India's  Christi- 
anity advancing  for  the  last  thirty  years  at 
such  a  speed  that  the  Empire  will  be  Christian 
in  a  hundred  and  sixty  years  ;  with  Catholic 
Christianity  alone  strong  enough  to  produce  in 
China  an  army  of  native  clergy  big  enough  to 
outnumber  either  the  C.M.S.  or  the  S.P.G. 
clergy  throughout  the  world  ^ ;  and  with  Japan 
recognising  Christianity  as  one  of  the  religions 
of  the  Empire.  The  very  fact  that  men 
who  dissent  from  orthodox  Christianity  think 
their  case  supported  by  such  works  as  these 
assures  our  victory.  Men  are  mostly  non- 
religious  to-day,  for  exactly  the  reason  St. 
John  alleged  centuries  ago — ^they  love  the  world. 
They  are  dazzled  by  its  wonder,  its  freedom, 
and  its  ever-increasing  pleasures  in  this  age. 
They  give  up  the  faith  because  of  its  restraints, 
and  then  they  bolster  up  their  disobedience  by 
incredible  ignorance.  Hardly  a  man  who  de- 
clines to  believe  the  Catholic  Faith  could  tell 
you  what  that  Catholic  Faith  is  which  he  de- 
clines to  believe.     Those  of  us  who  listen  to  his 

1  Annual  Review  of  the  Foreign  Mieeions  of  the  Church,  1911, 
p.  44. 


THE  COMING  KINGDOM  285 

talk  in  the  smoking-rooms  of  ocean-going  liners, 
or  in  the  lounges  of  clubs,  gather  that  the  chief 
articles  of  Catholic  Faith  are  that  God  made 
the  world  in  one  hundred  and  forty-four  literal 
hours,  that  Eve  was  deceived  by  a  creeping 
serpent,  that  Balaam's  ass  talked,  that  Jonah 
was  swallowed  by  a  whale,  that  the  greater  part 
of  the  world  is  going  to  hell,  and  that  heaven  is 
a  place  of  white  robes  and  harps.  That  is,  at 
least,  the  religion  at  which  they  jeer,  and  whose 
it  is  I  do  not  know.  Of  the  Communion  of 
Saints,  the  Forgiveness  of  Sins,  and  the  Life 
Everlasting  there  is  no  talk.  They  are  simply 
ignorant  of  orthodoxy. 

Over  against  these  trivialities  and  night- 
mares stands  the  Apostles'  Creed.  Where  all 
our  quondam  friends  disagree  and  propose 
weird  faiths,  the  Catholic  religion  remains  a 
reasonable  whole.  In  any  hundred  men  picked 
at  random — ^the  hundred  men  that  congregate 
in  these  outposts  of  the  world — no  one  ever  has 
a  complete  religious  philosophy,  making  any 
attempt  to  agree  with  logical  science  or  history, 
to  offer  except  the  Catholic.  There  may  be  a 
thousand  philosophies  in  the  study,  but  there 
is  only  one  among  the  negations  in  the  street. 
'  In  dealing  with  religion,'  says  Hamack,  '  is  it 
not  after  all  with  the  Christian  religion  alone 


286  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

that  we  have  to  do  ?  Other  rehgions  no  longer 
stir  the  depths  of  our  hearts.'  And  if  we  want 
a  further  proof  it  hes  in  this,  that  there  is  no 
other  philosophy  of  God  that  has  Missions  to 
the  heathen  save  the  Christian.  That  faith 
alone  seeks  to  save. 

I  began  by  saying  that  this  was  but  an  im- 
pression, and  I  wish  to  leave  it  at  that.  Per- 
haps I  have  been  over-daring  to  speak  of  such 
things  as  I  have ;  certainly  I  have  neither 
authority  nor  wit  to  say  much  more.  But 
there  surges  through  me,  as  I  walk  down  our 
Eastern  streets  that  have  not  yet  quite  lost 
their  novelty,  an  assurance  that  I  never  thought 
to  have  before.  We  seem  to  be  living  here  in  a 
chaotic  confusion  of  religions,  policies,  and  socie- 
ties. No  man  knows  what  to-morrow  will  bring 
— religiously,  politically,  or  socially— among  all 
these  crowds  in  our  streets.  There  is  a  fever 
abroad,  and  a  fear.  But  it  seems  to  me  that, 
among  all  the  mists  and  quicksands,  there  is 
a  Rock,  higher  than  I,  which  is  as  steadfast  as 
ever,  as  unique  as  ever,  and  as  pronounced  as 
ever.  There  are  a  thousand  elements  of  un- 
rest abroad,  there  is  only  one  of  rest ;  there 
are  a  thousand  elements  of  change,  there  is 
only  one  of  stability.  I  look  on  the  Moslem 
Faith  growing  vaguely  fearful,   and  I  would 


THE  COMING  KINGDOM  237 

cry   with   Alfred   in   Mr.    G.    K.    Chesterton's 

ballad  : 

*  That  though  all  lances  split  on  you, 

All  swords  be  heaved  in  vain, 
We  have  more  lust  again  to  lose 
Than  you  to  win  again ! ' 

I  look  on  these  wavering  Christians,  and  yet  I 
am  more  sure  than  ever  that  there  is  only  one 
source  to  which  any  soul  in  this  city  will  turn 
when  it  comes  to  need  God.  And,  above  all, 
I  look  on  this  kaleidoscopic  world,  and  I  am 
utterly  convinced  that  of  all  kingdoms  there 
is  but  one  that  has  no  end. 

All  this  is,  of  course,  beyond  argument,  and 
I  feel  content  that  it  should  be  so.  So  is  the 
First  Epistle  of  St.  John.  So  was  the  confi- 
dence of  Alban  and  George,  the  wanton  dying 
of  the  child  martyrs,  the  ecstasy  of  Julian  and 
Theresa,  and  the  extravagance  of  Francis  and 
Ignatius.  It  is  this  faith  which  bears  us,  and 
teaches  us  at  last  to  rest  from  our  petty  efforts 
to  support  it.  And  it  is  this  faith  which  lights 
a  vision  of  which  there  is  only  one  thing  to 
say: 

*  Mine  eyes  have  seen — my  God  I  glorify ! 
Mine  eyes  have  seen — Trust  me !     I  would  not  lie. 
Nay,  trust  me  not,  my  tidings  prove  and  try ! 
An  you  would  see,  come  the  same  way  as  I — 
Way  of  the  white  fields  where  the  sheaves  we  tie — 
Come  1  * 


XXVII 

BEYOND    THE   DISTANT   HILLS 

We  are  out  in  the  fairway,  and  the  city  is  look- 
ing more  beautiful  than  it  has  any  right  to 
look.  The  foreign  consulates  along  the  front 
are  gay  with  flags,  and  palms  star  the  white- 
ness of  it  all  from  where  the  scarlet  of  the 
Sultan  waves  across  to  the  red,  white,  and  blue 
above  the  Agency  roof.  A  swarm  of  shore 
boats,  filled  with  that  picturesque  crowd  which 
makes  up  in  chatter  what  it  lacks  in  solid  effort, 
lies  alongside ;  but  they  will  fall  away  soon.  The 
big  boat  beneath  us  will  gather  way ;  the  city 
and  its  gardens  will  be  low  on  the  horizon  in  an 
hour  or  so  ;  and  the  world's  wheels  will  go  on 
turning  here  as  if  I  had  never  tried  to  hurry  them. 
But  it  is  not  of  the  city  I  would  write.  Far 
out  across  the  matchless  blue  of  this  tropical 
strait  there  shines  clear  to-day  the  outline  of 
those  hills  which  I  had  dreamed  of  many  times 
before  I  saw  them,  and  often  since.  They  lie 
out  beyond  the  low  islands  of  the  reef— those 


BEYOND  THE  DISTANT  HILLS    289 

emeralds  set  in  white  foam  ;  beyond  the  dazz- 
ling sheen  of  the  coral  sand-banks ;  beyond 
the  white  flecks  of  the  dhow's  sails  that  beat 
where  I  may  not  go.  They  are  misty  and  low, 
but  I  would  rather  look  towards  them  for  the 
last  time  than  island- wards. 

I  remember  that  I  saw  them  first  years  ago, 
in  a  London  suburb,  a-sprawl  one  winter  before 
the  fire  with  a  book  of  Livingstone's  travels. 
Then  I  have  seen  them  from  the  depths  of  a 
monstrous  arm-chair  in  a  little  attic  room  off 
an  ancient  court,  where  the  cold  moon  lies 
frostily  over  the  stained  oriel  and  the  little 
turret  of  the  old  hall.  I  have  seen  them  on 
many  a  steamy  fragrant  summer  day,  lying 
full-length  under  the  sweeping  willows  of  the 
Upper  River,  while  the  slow  current  dragged 
the  water-weeds  here  and  there  and  the  scent 
of  rich  woods  filled  the  air.  And  even  more, 
perhaps,  I  have  looked  out  towards  them  from 
mountain-tops  in  Scotland,  high  on  Ben  Venue 
with  the  Tay  babbling  beneath,  or  stretched 
on  the  heather  slopes  of  Goatfell  in  one  of  the 
best  of  the  western  isles.  Here  I  have  seen 
them  nearer  these  many  months,  and,  sitting 
at  the  gate,  have  heard  travellers'  tales  as 
they  passed  through. 


240  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

It  is  not  less  a  land  of  mystery  because  now 
the  railway  runs  beyond ;  indeed,  it  is  more  so. 
That  it  should  be  possible  to  skip  thunderingly 
through  the  great  forests,  past  the  great  herds 
of  game  on  the  wide  plains,  right  up  to  the 
snow  head  of  Kilimanjaro  who  braves  God 
against  His  sky  !  It  does  not  really  matter 
that  (as  an  old  traveller  from  the  so-distant 
land  told  me)  Ilala  and  its  environment  is  now 
imder  strict  control,  so  that  you  may  not  even 
die  without  registration.  Still,  for  me,  the 
heart  of  Livingstone  is  there,  and  the  spirit  of 
many  more;  and  I  know  that  there  are  a 
hundred  thousand  villages  there  where  the  soul 
of  Africa  is  beating  as  though  the  white  man 
had  never  set  out  to  conquer  the  world. 

But  that  soul  of  Africa  is  the  enigma.  Many 
physicians  have  tried  to  doctor  it.  Beyond 
the  hills  the  spires  of  cathedrals  star  the  land ; 
from  Blantyre  and  its  thriving  schools  ;  past 
Likoma  and  a  Christian  island,  where  in  the 
memory  of  living  men  witches  were  burned  and 
their  children  with  them  ;  to  Tanganyika  and 
the  great  church  of  the  White  Fathers,  centre 
of  I  do  not  know  how  many  lesser  stations. 
Last  and  greatest,  maybe,  this  Physician,  but 
Africa  has  spent  her  money  on  many  more. 


;:x:sr;:;:,;,.-..; 

k 
1 

''ifUjilii iiiiBiiHiiiiK^         * 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^Bj^HMMJIP;^- '^ 

^^  J.       .<^HIi 

AN  AFRICAN  STREAM 


BEYOND  THE  DISTANT  HILLS    241 

Beyond  those  hills  there  are  towns  and  villages 
as  full  of  mud  mosques  as  the  city  behind  me 
of  stone  ones  ;  there  are  trails  blazed  with  the 
surgeon-knife  of  the  Prophet  that  he  used  so 
wantonly ;  and  there  are  fierce  hearts  and 
eager  hands.  But  is  that  all  ?  Picture  to 
yourself  the  many  ruins  that  those  hills  hide, 
the  unknown  cities  and  temples  buried  in  a 
tangle  of  forest,  lost  in  the  maze  of  her  ways. 
They  did  not  come  without  their  gods,  those 
old  builders,  if  come  they  did,  for  maybe  here 
the  great  womb  of  creative  evolution  travailed 
in  the  dawn  of  the  world.  But  beyond, 
beyond.  .  .  .  Not  so  very  far  away  the  Nile 
whispers  first  among  his  rushes,  and  thunders 
later  past  the  silent  columns  and  storied  temples 
of  the  desert  sands.  And  between  us  and  the 
Nile  the  teeming  tropical  world  has  hidden  a 
thousand  secrets  more,  of  which  one  can  but 
dream. 

And  so  I  pass  the  barrier  in  thought  to  the 
little  villages,  the  low  huts,  the  green  patches, 
the  deep  cool  wells,  the  high  waving  trees  of 
the  land  of  men  and  women  whose  backs  have 
ever  been  bowed  down.  Are  they  old,  or  are 
they  young  ?  Have  they  wrested  that  trick 
of  the  bones,  that  mutter  of  the  wizard,  that 


242  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

hideous  fetish  of  the  pitiable  human  fragments 
and  the  black  mud,  that  dance  at  night  before 
the  spirits  of  grove  or  stone,  all  these  things, 
from  the  wrack  of  a  hundred  immemorial  faiths 
or  from  the  imagination  of  the  child-man  of  the 
world  ?  That  is  what  one  wonders,  and  it  makes 
an  enormous  difference  as  one  looks  at  the  hills. 

The  Dean  of  St.  Paul's  in  his  four  lectures  on 
The  Church  and  the  Age,  which  reached  us 
after  the  press  had  dubbed  their  author  by  a 
lugubrious  sobriquet,  takes  one  line.  He  is 
very  sure  that  the  Church  is  not  far  down  the 
ages  with  her  journey  just  begun,  but  that  the 
incredible  age  of  the  inorganic  world,  our 
speculations  as  to  the  vista  of  years  down 
which  the  human  race  has  come  since  the 
Ipswich  man  left  his  bones  in  East  Anglian 
mud,  and  the  comparative  shortness  of  the 
historic  era,  all  point  to  many  ages  yet  to  be. 
Religiously,  we  are  the  Fathers  of  the  future 
Church— Chrysostom,  TertuUian,  and  Clement 
merely  the  babes.  Practically,  it  is  better  to 
settle  down  quietly  and  do  the  next  thing 
without  speculation,  for  we  are  but  dust  in  the 
pathway  of  the  Breath  of  Life,  and  as  likely  as 
dust  to  understand  the  ways  of  that  passing. 

But  is  it  so  ?     If  a  thousand  years  are  to  the 


BEYOND  THE  DISTANT  HILLS    243 

Lord  as  one  day,  so  is  a  day  as  a  thousand  years. 
Our  modern  deans  may  well  be  wise,  but  how- 
ever idly  one  speculates  upon  the  wisdom  of 
the  past,  one  hesitates  to  call  them  fathers. 
And  more  pertinently,  this  Africa  beyond  the 
hills,  is  not  she  old  after  all  ?  Her  sons  are 
more  like  old  old  men,  sick  with  the  childish- 
ness of  old  age,  than  children  of  a  dawn.  Her 
sins  are  more  like  the  last  game  of  the  devil 
than  the  first  he  played.  Her  ingrained  habits 
of  sloth  and  dishonesty,  of  quick  reversion  to 
the  type,  of  inability  to  stand  upright  in  the 
world's  press,  these  are  not  the  characteristics 
of  an  evolutionary  birth-stage.  One  can  see 
Africa  nearer  home  than  those  hills  wherever 
old  men,  sodden  with  vice,  tempt  little  children 
in  the  slums,  and  old  women  laugh  at  them  for  it. 
No  ;  it  does  not  seem  to  me  that  the  scheme 
of  earthly  things  is  still  young ;  but  do  those 
hills,  then,  hide  despairs  ?  I  think  not  so.  The 
flame  of  hope  that  flickers  anew  in  every  soul 
as  it  is  born  has  been  brightened  in  many  there 
for  the  altar  of  the  temple  of  God.  Though  a 
fan  winnow  the  floor,  there  is  grain  for  the 
garner.  And  even  for  the  rest  I  have  no  ulti- 
mate despair.  If  He  must  at  last  scatter  any 
of  the  chaff,  I  know  enough  of  Him  to  be  sure 


244  A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

that  even  that  will  be  best,  and  if  hypocrisy 
and  cant  do  most  to  make  for  chaff,  there  is 
more  in  other  floors  than  here.  But  God  does 
not  waste  in  any  case.  Cannot  even  we,  in 
our  factories,  recreate,  from  dust  and  bone  and 
rag,  fair  white  paper  for  another  story,  fairer, 
it  may  be,  than  the  first  ?  And  God  is  a  greater 
alchemist  than  we.  When  the  Deliverer  trails 
His  robe  over  the  world  in  His  coming,  we 
shall  see.  Perhaps,  as  once  before,  there  are 
who  will  not  recognise  Him  when  He  comes ; 
I  do  not  know.  But  there  are  also  eyes  which 
will  open  then  to  the  light,  and  palsied  feet 
which  will  leap  up  then  and  walk;  and  it  is 
because  I  would  fain  see  the  light  of  that  day 
that  I  gaze  out  last  of  all  upon  the  hills.  All 
these  months  it  has  only  once  been  ordered 
that  I  should  go  beyond,  and  now  it  is  not  likely 
that  I  shall  ever  do  so  again.  But  no  one  can 
bar  my  thoughts.  I  go  back  to  dream  on  still, 
and  if  that  be  all,  still  this  last  dream  is  the 
best,  for  despite  the  disappointments  and  the 
sorrows  the  gold  of  the  true  dawn  is  glittering 
there,  and  I  know  that  across  the  hill-tops 
comes  the  King. 


Printed  by  T.  and  A.  Const ablk,  Printers  to  His  Majesty 
at  the  Edinburgh  University  Press 


14  DAY  USE 

RSTUSN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below, 
or  on  the  date  to  which  renewed.  Renewals  only: 

Tel.  No.  642-3405 

Renewals  may  be  made  4  days  prior  to  date  due. 

"*         red  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


\i2^ 


~7A^n^ 


LOAN 


PR  1  8  1372 


(Q1178sl0)176^A-82  UniTMjg^rf  OWorma 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


